


Virgin Vigilante

by AvidAnon



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Author is an Insensitive Asshole So Inapropro Humor Abounds And Slaps You in the Face With Its Dick, Drugs, F/M, Inacurate Portrayal of PTSD, Language, Lots of Dark Shit Up In Hurrrr, M/M, Possibly Unrequited Love, Sex, Temporarily Requited Love, Temporarily Unrequited Love, Unrequited Love, author has never read the comics, author has no right to play in this fandom, author has only seen the first andrew garfield spiderman movie, but she dead so who gives af, graphic description of child abuse, not really the last one its mostly just nikki minaj quotes, of the sexual variety, past Gwen Stacy/Peter Parker - Freeform, probably butt stuff, rock n roll, shut tf up steve
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-06-04 14:54:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 23,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6663241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvidAnon/pseuds/AvidAnon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I heard a rumor that originally in the "Skip" arc (the psa about childhood sexual abuse and how abuse victims can get help, etc.) BEN PARKER was going to be the one who molested Peter instead of Skip. Whether or not that's true, it is something that has haunted me and made me feel physically ill ever since. This fic is inspired from that urban legend. This will NOT be for the feint of heart. This will be a violent, gory, uncomfortable mess.</p><p>But underneath the mess, if you look hard enough--this fic is about finding yourself in the darkness. About trying to retain a piece of goodness despite the temptations of evil. Clinging onto insanity when sane makes no sense. Love, hope, and trust. And of course.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Butt stuff! Can't forget the butt stuff!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You Call it Excuses, I Call it Exposition so Fuck Off and Leave Me Alone

**Author's Note:**

> I heard a rumor that in the comic where Peter Parker is molested by Skip, that originally they were going to have it be Uncle Ben. That idea sickened me--and yet, I couldn't stop thinking about it. How things would have been so different had Peter been abused by the same Uncle painted as a saint. So of course, I started writing. And I liked what was happening, so I decided that this would be the first Thing I ever finished writing. 
> 
> Also, this is gonna be suuuuuuuuuuuper dark. Like, darker than I am even comfortable with in spots. Go big or go home (that's what she said). And I'm going to be a dick and treat sensitive subjects with the grace of a hippo eating ramen with chopsticks. Because most of the darker aspects of this story, I've been fortunate to have not physically dealt with in life. So I'm an ignorant twatwaffle. I will get things wrong, and this fic isn't about being right. It's about people overcoming their awful circumstances and still finding hope and love in themselves and in others.
> 
> And sex. Lesbehonest.
> 
> Soooooooo...yeah. I should have waited a bit longer to post this, but yeah. Should have isn't as fun. Anyways, don't expect spot on characterizations. These guys have experienced different things, therefore I think that they would end up being different people--not totally, I feel like there are parts of us that are...this isn't a philosophy class, lol.
> 
> Anyways, chapters will probably end with cliffhangers of sorts because I don't know how else to end things. If there are particularly horrendous cliffhangers, I will post up multiple chapters so the flow of the story isn't too interrupted. I have about 20k+ written in advance so far (14 chapters). I think this is going to end up being a series, though, judging on where I have written to vs where the story is planned to end up at.
> 
> If you have any specific questions related to the plot that you would like answered but I will not spoil publicly, email me (check my profile, I think I have it visible?). I know that when I read ff, I like to know exactly what I'm getting into. ESPECIALLY when there's a character death involved. I love reading angst, but haaaaaaate being surprised by the death of a character (unless the death is a temporary thing).
> 
> Ok, now I'll shut up.

_He stared, numb, as the puddle of red flowed outward, as if each drop were desperate to escape their fleshy prison, pushing and shoving to find freedom. Blood seeped through the man’s sweater; drop by pooling drop, eternally marring previously unassuming beige and off-white stripes. A gift from a few Christmases ago._

_“With great power comes great responsibility,” His uncle’s favorite phrase cycled in a perpetual loop, louder and louder until it felt like the man was screaming in his ears instead of drowning in a sea of his own blood, choking, begging, and gasping for life._

_“H-help—h—” Each exhale was strained and wet with red spittle interrupting his speech._

_Peter’s wasn’t horrified._

_He wasn’t sad. He wasn’t angry—Hell, he felt nothing at the man’s death. _

_Except relief._

_He felt relief._

 

“Fuck!” Peter jolted in bed, sweat dripping from his hair and into his eyes. Eyes that were now wide open—blank and glazed over, staring at something a million miles away—while his chest heaved as he gulped for air. His hands yanked his hair at the roots, trembling and shaking, spine hunched over so his head was nearly in his lap.

 

“Fuck.” He hissed into the worn duvet covering his crotch.

 

Time crawled by as Peter’s heartbeat slowed, but eventually he flopped back onto his pillow, one hand still in his sweaty hair while the other dangled over the edge of his bed. With a deep sigh, Peter closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

 

The next time, Peter woke up to the blaring of his alarm clock. He stared at the ceiling, mind whirring with loud, yet empty static. “ _Most_ people don’t remember nightmares from the middle of the night,” He mumbled to himself, scratching his stomach absentmindedly. Some shit about REM and other stuff that he didn’t care about anymore.

 

He postulated that it was something to do with the venom irradiating his veins. It didn’t really matter, though. The effect was the same: he remembered all of his nightmares with a clarity that rivaled an IMAX theater. Because it hadn’t been enough to experience everything when _dear_ old Uncle Ben was alive. Nope. PTSD: the gift that keeps on giving.

 

Closing his eyes, Peter took a deep breath, letting the apartment’s stale oxygen flood his lungs, releasing the bitterness he didn’t feel like dealing with anymore—or at least, he didn’t feel like dealing with it before breakfast. As he exhaled through his nose, Peter opened his eyes and sat up. _Gently_ , Peter reached over the end table to grab his phone and turned the alarm off, _carefully_ dropping it in his lap with a yawn. Crawling back to Stark and begging for a new one didn’t sound like an experience worth repeating more than necessary.

 

_Begging_ is something he’d really rather not do. Ever.

 

Peter stood, stretching, and got ready for the day. After grabbing a banana, he left for work with his camera and backpack in tow.

 

It went something like this: Jameson yelled at him, Peter took it like a good boy, Jameson yelled some more, Peter handed in some new Spider-Man pictures, and Jameson yelled some more. Typical day. Typical life.

 

Still not fired, though. So there was that, at least. Silver linings and all that jazz.

 

At home, Peter scarfed down a meager dinner, donned the spandex suit and threw his window open wide, shit-eating grin hurting his cheeks. _This_ was why he lived. _This_ was what made everything worth it—every piece of shit that Jameson spewed at him, every missed meal he couldn’t afford (physically, he needed to eat more, but financially he needed to eat less, so yeah, pun intended), every _fucking_ bill that transformed his stomach into a glob of acid. _This_ made him feel alive and powerful—like he _actually_ had something to offer.

 

“Help!” Someone screamed a couple blocks over. Adrenaline flushed through his body, and Peter jumped, freefalling briefly before shooting a web and swinging away.

 

Patrolling had begun!

 

Two kittens stuck on two different window ledges (same building, interestingly enough), three attempted burglaries, and five lost foreigners—no Partridge in a Pear tree, though. Still, it was a fairly quiet night, all things considered. Of course, things had been quiet for a long time. Years, really. Sure, violent crimes still happened—Spider-Man couldn’t get to _everybody_ —but they were significantly less frequent, particularly in the Special Victims Unit.

 

Spider-Man resolutely ignored the “why” of it as his guts preemptively writhed. Now was not the time to think of… _that_. He had work to do. Out of the corner of his eye there was a flutter of movement by the alley across the street. Chills trickled down his spine and he hopped over to investigate. On the roof, Peter looked down at the scene below, feeling the familiar nausea squirming at the back of his throat.

 

“Hel—mpf!” A teenage boy screamed as a meaty hand cut his cries off, muffled pleas ignored by the captor. Spider-Man watched as the kid kicked and fought to no avail. The man was three times the teen’s size, thick muscles rippling as he slammed the boy against the alley’s dank brick wall.

 

Peter’s body tensed and shook. The hum of New York night life cut off as his entire being focused on the sight before him. Rage swelled in his chest, clawing for a way out despite Peter’s half-assed attempts to shut it down.

 

_Count to ten_. _Breathe_. _Don’t do it_.

 

“ _Faggot_.” The man hummed in the kid’s ear, free hand snatching his victim’s waist.

 

Spider-Man’s jaw clenched and his heart thundered like a rabid tiger locked in a closet, his body quivering with the effort to stay still—to contain the insanity. Trying to turn it off so he could handle the situation efficiently _without_ blood and trauma, but the rational part of his mind was losing the battle.

 

The large man shoved his foot in between the kid’s legs and gyrated against his ass. Then he _purred_ , “Bet you like this. Bet you _love_ it.”

 

Peter’s hand twitched.

 

“ _Faggot_.”

 

Peter’s vision blurred and his breathing was loud and labored—if the man below him hadn’t been so _occupied_ , he’d have known instantly the danger he was in. Weak attempts at rationality still whispered in his head, but they were largely drowned out by the familiar sounds of grunting and huffing that haunted his nightmares.

 

The man reached for the kid’s belt, and Peter finally surrendered control, screaming as he faded into the darkness.

 

May Spider-Man have mercy upon his soul.

 

“Here’s a tip for you. Using the word ‘faggot’ might be a little less hypocritical if you weren’t dragging your nasty dick across a guy’s ass crack,” Spider-Man spoke with an air of indifference, “Just sayin’.”

 

The man turned towards the voice and the blood drained from his face, boner probably dying along with it. But maybe not? You never know. People were into some kinky shit.

 

“Ah. You know who I am! Don’cha, dickface?” Spider-Man leapt down and stared at the man, the blank eyes of his own mask making his indifferent tone all the more deadly.

 

Turning towards the kid, Spider-Man’s voice dropped the coldness, “You’re good to go now, kid. Be careful, and if you need help, your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man will do his best to help out! See ya!”

 

The kid looked uncertain, so Spider-Man gave him a little wave. It didn’t seem to make the kid less nervous, and he looked pretty green, but he ran off without looking back.

 

The masked vigilante turned to the man who looked like he was going to (try, very important word in this case) make a run for it. “Stay the _Hell_ where you are, jackass, that is _if_ you ever want to see the light of day again,” he snarled, playful indifference forgotten.

 

The man shivered and stayed put, plastered against the wall as if it could save him. _Not so powerful now_. Spider-Man’s face split into a malicious grin, crumpling his mask.

 

“Yay! Now we can chat, mano a mano. Capice?” Spider-Man’s voice was gleefully dark as he walked towards his prey, grin still twisting his face, “You know what I _hate_ the most?”

 

The alleyway’s Dumpsters filled his nose with the oh-so-alluring scent of rotting garbage, but as Spider-Man advanced towards the man, the sickly sweet scent of fear grew stronger and stronger—mixed with stale sweat and garlic, but still cloying and present. He licked his lips.

 

“You all _know_ I’m going to catch you. You all know it’ll happen _eventually_. But you _still_ _do it anyways_.” Spider-Man growled, and grabbed the man by his stubbly throat, feeling his heart hammering and skipping through the man’s pulse, “What is so _gratifying_ about fucking someone’s life up so you can have your five minutes of happy penis time? That is, if you can even last five minutes,” Spider-Man snickered.

 

Staring into the man’s eyes, Spider-Man wondered if his words would be just as terrifying without the mask on, if his gaze was unfiltered. He wondered if his enhanced senses could smell the adrenaline—the iron in his veins before it ever spilled onto the ground.

 

“What makes it worth being caught by _me_? Surely impotence in the face of explicit consent isn’t as bad as, well.” Spider-Man giggled, “Well, as bad as _my_ brand of nonconsensual, but still explicit impotence.”

 

He leaned into the man’s ear, smirking at the way the skeezball flinched, “You all _know_ that I _really_ distaste seeing this kind of thing in my own backyard. And even if it weren’t for my own personal feelings towards _your_ kind’s actions, it would be _most_ irresponsible of me to not use everything in my power to help those _tempted_ so they never worry again.” Spider-Man chuckled breathily, tasting the man’s sweat and the brick’s mold in the air, “You know, a man once told me that ‘With great power comes great responsibility.’”

 

Spider-Man paused for a moment, letting the words sink into the silence, counting the beats of the man’s pulse.

 

“You know what that man did after telling me that?” He spoke in a deadly whisper, warm breath puffing into the man’s ear, chill bumps creeping down his prey’s spine.

 

“I’ll stop, I swear, I—SWEAR—I’LL—STOP—please—don’t kill me—please—I SWEAR, I’M SORR—”

 

Spider-Man’s grip tensed, cutting off the desperate pleas, and he was back to looking into the man’s eyes, “He put his dick in my mouth, that’s what. Bastard even had to take fucking _Viagra_ to get it up. Told me I’d be arrested if I bit it off.” Spider-Man slammed the man into the brick wall. He put a gentle finger to the man’s lips, hushing his whimpers.

 

“Told me he’d pull out _every last_ _tooth_ in my head if I wasn’t just oh, so, _very_ , careful.” Spider-Man caressed the man’s jaw, gently stroking his thumb over the shivering, cracked lips.

 

The man was crying, snot and tears oozing shamelessly, hiccupping when Spider-Man’s thumb traced his teeth.

 

“You know where he put his dick next?” Spider-Man tightened his hand around the man’s throat, rubbing him into the wall, relishing each pained wince, and he leaned over to whisper in his ear, taking his hand away from the chapped mouth and resting it on the beefy shoulder, curling his fingers into the muscle.

 

“Exactly where you think he did. Gave me _permission_ to _cry_ if I wanted, s’long as my aunt in the other room didn’t hear me begging for help, for _mercy_ ,” Spider-Man’s fingers dug into the man’s shoulder, hard enough to bruise, “Then we all ate dinner like one big happy family,” Spider-Man whispered singsong, nuzzling the side of the man’s clammy head with his masked cheek, “But my Aunt _cried_ when I refused to kiss her goodnight. I couldn’t, though. I loved her too much to let my _defiled_ lips touch her cheek.”

 

Spider-Man’s loosened the hand choking the man when he realized the gasping was getting a little too strained. This was important. There was a reason for the madness. A reason Spider-Man’s eyes were as blank as his mask. A reason for the numbness.

 

“I tell you all this because ‘With great power comes great responsibility,’ and you’ve lost your privileges, just like _he_ eventually did. Though _he_ didn’t lose them soon enough, so here I am now, helping karma sort out what needs sorting out since she’s busy and there are _so many_ out there like me who deserve _sooner_ instead of _later_. Hell, you might even say the universe _handpicked_ me for this!” Spider-Man relaxed a bit, but the man stiffened and shook like an epileptic Chihuahua at a rave in Antarctica.

 

“But, enough about that. You’re lucky! You get to choose. Your _life_ ,” The indifferent tone was back and Spider-Man gently caressed the man’s throat with his thumb relishing the frightened whimpers as the man started struggling now that the moment of reckoning had arrived.

 

“Or your _balls_.” Spider-Man pulled a knife out from his belt with a flourish and for a second he was certain the man was about to piss his pants.

 

“Which would you rather keep? Fair warning, I’m pretty sure you don’t get much use out of them where you’re going if you choose to stay _intact_.”

 

The acrid scent of piss was barely noticeable in the alleyway over the metallic aroma of blood painted on the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie, when I first started writing this, I did not expect that ending until I reached that part. And then it just kind of happened. Is it ooc? Probably, yeah, but like Marvel fucks with everyone so who even knows what's canon and what isn't anymore. Get off my dick!
> 
> ...please comment?


	2. Ch 2: Aw, Nuts! Did That Really Just Happen?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter's self flagellation. Because you can't have morally dubious Peter without an unhealthy dose of self-hatred! ALL ABOARD THE ANGST TRAIN CHOO CHOO

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I’m thinking I’m gonna be updating this weekly? I think that’s a schedule I can stick with. Whenever there are reeeeeally bad cliffhangers, I’ll of course post an extra chapter. But my definition of really bad might differ from yours (read: like, do they live or not kind of cliffhangers lololololol I’m a jerk but for real I don’t know how to not end things with cliffhangers). But a weekly will give me enough time to write new chapters and edit pre-written chapters to the point where they are all of the high quality I demand of myself. So, they’re on the short side as far as length, but (hopefully) are really fucking well-written short chapters (I think the longest so far is about 3k words, and I don't really go less than 1k, if there are any under 1k, I'll probably post two).
> 
> I’d like to add that the response for this fic has been faaaaaaar beyond my expectations. You guys have said some of the most amazing things I have ever been told. Like, for real. I expected maybe two or three comments, but 14 (.5, lol buttstuff I still love your un)!? I have no words. I feel a bit nervous, lol, but mostly really excited because I’ve probably spent at least 8 hours on the first chapter, and it's fantastic that it's so well received!
> 
> I’ve had such a hard time resisting the urge to post this chap, lol. But I really think I should stick with the mostly weekly posting schedule (Mon/Tues), because I don’t want to get caught up to what I’ve already written. I like being able to have some leeway as far as deadlines go. And that way you all have consistency. Win-win for everybody! Except for Peter. He kind of gets the short of the stick here. Fun fact: in the earlier stages when I couldn't think of a name for this fic, I named the file "Poor Spider," because I'm a moron. XD

Screams echoed into the night.

 

“There, there buddy. You brought this upon yourself,” Spider-Man plopped him at the front doors of the emergency room, leaving the man moaning in pain and shuddering in fear. “Have a nice day, and remember that if you ever need help, just call out and your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man will be there to do what he can, no hard feelings, literally and figuratively in your case! Toodles!”

 

Spider-Man swung off, heading towards home as fast as he could, feeling the numbness leave his mind only to be replaced with physical nausea in his gut. His hands were shaky and it felt like someone had surgically replaced his brain with a fully functional model of the Liberty Bell, clanging and banging with every movement. Swinging from web to web through the air made his stomach twist and bile taunted the back of his throat. _Almost there_. He was _almost there_. He could _do_ this.

 

But suddenly Spider-Man was gone and he was just Peter again, flinging his way through the city in a ridiculous blue and red spandex fetish suit, flecked with blood. His back was raw under the weight of every eye following him from the ground and windows, while his arms jerked awkwardly despite what should have been familiar motions.

 

Pre-spider senses, he would trip, drop shit, and fumble every time his brain decided to panic and monitor his _every_ voluntary and involuntary muscle movement instead of relaxing and allowing him to simply _move_.

 

Dancing was always a disaster, needless to say.

 

It wasn’t as bad anymore. The spider senses hijacked his overactive brain—not completely shutting up the anxiety unfortunately, but even though his movements would still be jerky, unsteady, and over calculated—at least he didn’t bust his lip open on coffee mugs mid-sip when he realized someone was looking at him (even if it was just for casual conversation). Nor, thankfully, did he have to worry about missing a webshot because he was too busy _worrying about missing_ _said_ _webshot_ (oh the wonders of anxiety). The spidey senses would make the executive decision for him; the need to survive overriding the worry of fucking up (the thing which generally _caused_ said fucking up). You know. Like a _normal_ person.

 

He tumbled through his window and staggered into the bathroom, still shaking and vision fuzzy. With bloodied gloves he ripped off his mask, and threw up: thankfully landing everything in the toilet.

 

Once the retching seemed to calm down, Peter rested his forehead on the toilet seat, sweat pouring down the sides of his face. He sighed at the feeling of the cool plastic against his skin and tried to not think about puking (because that would likely trigger another round of vomiting worthy of some weird fetish porno masquerading as a B-rated slasher flic). A shakey hand fumbled around for the flush lever, eventually giving up the search to fall to the ground.

 

The night’s events rolled through his mind as he stared at the ugly pink linoleum floor and clenched a hand into a weak fist. It had _almost_ been fine. _Almost_. It had been _so_ _long_ since the last time, too. He was getting complacent. Just when it looked like Spider-Man finally rid New York City of sex crimes (or at least, sex crimes out in the open), that little fucker had the _nerve_ to show up.

 

Peter took a deep breath, inhaling the faded scent of bleach and resolutely ignoring the bitter vomit still lingering in the air. Relaxing his hand, he closed his eyes. Part of him wanted to just throw in the towel and give up patrolling altogether. It would be so _fucking_ easy. He could be _normal_. He could get therapy or whatever the Hell would make him stop seeing his uncle’s dying face behind his eyelids, writhing in pain and fear while Peter’s smirk reflected in the glassy eyes. Relishing the man’s soul slowly trickling out of Peter’s life for good.

 

“As if he even had a soul,” Peter snorted and opened his eyes again, tracing the floral pattern of the linoleum with his thumb, face pale and lips curled into a resigned half-smile that didn’t reach his blank eyes.

 

And maybe help him not feel guilty for _not_ feeling guilty about the bastard’s death.

 

Taking a deep breath, Peter braced himself against the toilet and slowly stood up. He closed his eyes as he peeled off his costume, biting his lip when it tugged his skin in the places it was cemented on with dried blood. Finally tossing it aside in the corner, Peter didn’t give it a spare glance. He’d deal with it later.

 

And by “deal,” he means burn it, because A. He couldn’t just drag the nasty, _bloodied_ thing to the dry cleaners and B. He was pretty sure no amount of _magic_ could remove the crusty blood stains, much less the non-magical (to his knowledge) grumpy gossips that ran the nearest (and most affordable) Laundromat.

 

Leaning over the sink, Peter looked at his reflection in the medicine cabinet’s mirror, specifically checking for bruises, still skimming over his puffy eyes and gaunt cheeks. Nothing looked out of the ordinary, except that he was paler than usual—but that was normal after a night…

 

After a night that ended with a ticket for the porcelain express, party of one.

 

The yellow-y light of the bathroom was quite unflattering, turning his pale skin a sickly sallow, and the dark circles under his eyes a mottled green. He looked away from his face and checked over his arms and the rest of his body. Thankfully everything seemed to have returned to factory default.

 

“Gotta love that radioactive spider venom,” Peter mused out loud. Before the bite, he bruised like an apple—you just looked at him funny, and suddenly a bruise the size of the continental US showed up on his forehead.

 

Peter’s empty laugh echoed in the bathroom: a short bark that somehow made everything seem even quieter—hollow.

 

Until his stomach growled.

 

The usual hunger and emptiness. Peter winced, but ignored it, choosing to step into the shower instead. The wasted meal was disappointing, but there was no way he’d be able to keep anything down, anyways. Twisting the broken knobs, the water pipes groaned before blasting him in the face with freezing water.

 

The shock of cold water made Peter jump, but it warmed up pretty quickly—his landlord had won a grant for those fancy energy efficient water heaters and he still hadn’t gotten used to not running around for a minute or so waiting for the water to warm up. Granted, he could’ve just counted to ten or something, but he lived life on the edge (of insanity).

 

Underneath the basket of his shower caddy, a ratty wash cloth hung on a cheap, rusty hook. Grabbing it with a still shaky hand, Peter worked it into a lather with a sliver of bar soap. Carefully, he ran it over his body giving extra attention to the places the blood had soaked through his suit and matted his meager chest hair, plentiful leg hair, and, well, _other_ hair—he swore that blood itself had cognition of some sort since it always seemed to collect in places Peter would _really_ rather it not collect. The media made chest wounds and being covered in blood look glamorous (or badass, at least) and heroic, but the reality of it was pretty fucking gross. Fortunately for Peter, the radioactive venom took care of things he’d really rather not think about—which he learned after one too many Hepatitis scares.

 

As Peter sudded up, the water swirled pink in the drain—darkening when he reached a patch of skin especially Carrie-esque, but lightening up after a little while until eventually it ran completely clear. Like nothing had ever happened. Factory reset. _Snow White and the Seven Dwarves_.

 

…except for the ring spiraling around the drain, marking the path the tainted water took after running down his legs, between his toes—silently escaping, gone but not forgotten.

 

The scent of rotting garbage in the alleyway filled his nose and Peter’s stomach lurched.

 

It _wasn’t_ _enough_.

 

He scrubbed harder, and harder, nails digging through the washcloth and into his skin—rubbing—scratching— _clawing_ _everything_ _off_ —ignoring the rawness—the _burning_. Hands stopped shaking, focusing instead on the need for purifying everything that tainted his body, his life, his soul—his very being. _Every_ square inch—skin _crawled_ and _itched_ , clamoring for attention. Was that a freckle? Better be safe and erase it. Was that a mole—no! It was _blood_ , and gore, and needed to _get off_ or else it would stain him _even_ _more_ —it would _become_ him, so he scratched at it, digging _hard_ into the skin, excising.

 

 _Scritch_.

 

 _Scratch_.

 

His eyes burned, but he was too far away to notice, not until his vision was too blurry to see where he was washing and rinsing and picking.

 

Sliding down the shower wall, he gave in and curled into a ball with his head rested on his knees, clawing at his arms frantically. He was _never_ _clean_ _enough_. It _never_ _worked_. No matter what, he could _feel_ every invisible _speck_ _of_ _something_ , ruining him, _soiling_ him—rotting a bigger and bigger hole until it swallowed him up entirely. _Infecting_ everything around him; slowly killing everything in its path.

 

 _Disgusting_.

 

 _Filthy_.

 

 _Broken_.

 

The water in the shower drain swirled bright red.

 

“It’s _never_ _enough_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I do not personally have panic attacks like the one Peter has in this chapter (the shower one, more specifically), I have had panic attacks before (including pukey ones soooooo not fun body, like, let's fix our problems by throwing them up into the toilet seems logical kay let's do it). I have social anxiety disorder (though my worst panic attacks were brought on by my phobia of medical stuff, such as getting blood drawn, like for real, once I passed out BEFORE THEY EVEN STUCK ME WITH THE NEEDLE LIKE WTF GO HOME ANXIETY YOU'RE DRUNK). 
> 
> They are not to be taken lightly. The bits where he talks about his hands jerking around and such are from my own experiences (minus the whole Tarzan thing, because I haven't been bitten by a radioactive spider). Having said that, I deal with things through humor. So, I of course have some self-deprecating jokes sprinkled throughout. For me, laughter is the best medicine and makes me feel in control.
> 
> That, and I have a very inappropriate sense of humor.
> 
> Soooooo, comment if you'd like and I'll see you next week on Mon/Tues! Kay, bye! :D


	3. The Nanny Named JARVIS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JARVIS is really just a nanny that Tony made because even he knows that he doesn't know how to adult.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter isn’t too ridiculously exciting. And neither is the next chapter. So, I’m gonna post them both so you don’t have two weeks-worth of boring filler necessary for transition. However, you get some insight into Peter’s psychology and a couple of other things. It’s not like “Kakashi’s Mask” level of filler, it’s more like here’s some more background info and setting up the scene kind of filler. No balls were harmed in the making of this chapter.
> 
> Anywho, this is the point where Peter’s reasoning and judgment kind of starts to get a little whacky. Like, I mean, not that knifing off gonads is exactly sane behavior, but like his motivations and justifications for things. They don’t always make sense. And he waffles around on a lot of them. You know, because he’s a little over in the bat-shit section of the DSM-5, if you catch my drift (he cray cray if you didn’t catch my drift). So if you don’t completely get his reasoning, then it’s because it doesn’t make sense. Like, looking back on the times when I was in the bat-shit section of the DSM-5 myself, I don’t even get my logic for a lot of the things I did. Hell, at the time I didn’t even understand my logic, and I wasn’t even close to the kind of crazy Peter is dealing with. 
> 
> Here in this chapter, his justifications aren’t as crazy as they’ll get, but they are still tenuous. And somewhat contradictory. Also, if anyone wants to make that meme, good luck. I literally just thought of three random memes (four, if you count Spider-Man).

The next day he trekked over to the Avenger’s Tower, all evidence of self-inflicted wounds gone thanks to the good ol’ healing factor. He interned (paid!) under Dr. Bruce Banner, who didn’t go out much for obvious reasons and lived in the tower for—again—obvious reasons. The job was pretty exciting, even though it probably wasn’t wise to spend so much time under the Avengers’ noses with the whole “secret identity needing to stay secret” thing.

 

Especially since Tony’s AI figured it out the moment Peter stepped within 50 yards of the building (probably even before that, but JARVIS wasn’t the type to brag, well, maybe he was but mostly he was just infuriatingly smug).

 

But Peter’s love of discovering scientific shit trumped his fear of his shit _being_ discovered, which was why he found himself pointedly ignoring newspaper headlines as he scrambled past them, willing his face to stop blushing at the stupid nickname plastered everywhere, and with his eyes glued to his feet. Of all the spider related puns the public could have gone with—like, The Fanged Fighter had been pretty cool, or well, admittedly the Sac Slasher had been kind of gross, but at least that one had been spider related!

 

No, instead he got fucking “Virgin Vigilante.” Like, it wasn’t even spider-y! The fucker that came up with the damned thing had better be praying he never figured it out, because it was _more_ than worth a swift kick in the teeth. The alliteration was nice—he was a fan of alliteration, really—but it just…hit a little too close to home. _And_ it was embarrassing as Hell.

 

Bad guys teasing him about it during their mid-battle monologues was _really_ getting fucking old. If he heard another bastardization of Little Miss Muffet he could not be held liable for his actions. A man can only take so much.

 

The first time he had seen the name it had been a joke about how young he was—his voice still cracked and clearly his gangly stature was that of a dweeby teenager (no matter how much padding he added to make it look like he had muscles, a fact Peter would take to his grave and deny tooth and nail). After a while, the name thankfully fell out of use—he’d see it here and there, but it was pretty rare and only in the dark corners of the internet. It helped that he had saved the city a few times and it looked like the Avengers were taking him under Cap’s little helmet wings. If the Avengers could take him seriously, then everyone else could, right?

 

Until, of course, That Night. The night everything changed and he lost control of himself after…

 

Well, all of a sudden, “Virgin Vigilante” took on a new meaning—not necessarily a _logical_ meaning (because contrary to popular ignorant opinion, losing the old V card didn’t mean losing the right to tell someone to fuck off), regardless he was still stuck with it.

 

He had to admit however, that the memes were _hilarious_! His personal favorite was the one with Ridiculously Photogenic Guy, Bad Luck Brian, and Rape Sloth. It made him ugly laugh every time.

 

Peter reached the tower without too much delay (just an old lady who dropped her cane and proceeded to smack him upside the head with it when he tried to help her, because that was just how his life worked) and smiled politely at the receptionist when she waved him in. Thankfully, she was too busy on the phone to flirt with him—his head was still sore from the great cane debacle of 2016 and really, he just wanted to get to work and do some mother-fucking science. He needed something to focus on.

 

Something to make his brain leave him alone.

 

However, he needed to get past JARVIS first—the busiest body to ever busy without an actual body. In trepidation, Peter took a deep breath before he walked towards the elevator and tried to mentally prepare for the emotional ambush JARVIS had planned.

 

“Hello, JARVIS,” Peter timidly greeted the AI after it opened the doors to let him in, his stomach bubbling in nervous anticipation as he walked in and leaned against the railing, fingers tapping franticly on his thigh.

 

When JARVIS first confronted Peter about his eight-legged inclinations, the AI promised to keep it secret for as long as Peter asked (read: as long as he wasn’t a threat to all parties not on the Couldn’t Keep It In His/Her Pants List, or the Ex-Boyfriend Who Murdered Gwen In Front Of My Face List—see fine print for exclusions and limitations that may apply). Despite the reassurances, it still felt like he was walking on eggshells around Tony Stark’s glorified nanny.

 

“Good morning, Mr. Parker. How have you been?” The disembodied voice—that absolutely did _not_ make Peter shriek like a two year old the first time he heard it—asked warmly. _Too_ warmly—like how his Aunt May did after she caught him sneaking into the house past curfew (thank Thor he was wearing civvies).

 

“I’ve been better, but nothing big. Just the usual,” Peter shrugged, and bit his lower lip knowing what was coming up next.

 

“You made the news again,” JARVIS spoke with a gentleness that made Peter wonder (and not for the first time, either) if there was actually a real live person, buried somewhere in Tony Stark’s basement, tied up and forced to pretend to be his virtual slave.

 

Stranger things _have_ happened. Like, if aliens, radioactive spider bites that gave super powers instead of prostate cancer, and Donald Trump running for president (with enough people actually voting for him to be considered the Republican nominee) were things that happened—then Tony kidnapping some old British dude was just another Taco Tuesday.

 

“I hadn’t noticed,” Peter’s voice was pale from his shallow breathing while his hands reached back to grip the railing, tense and quivering as the metal dug into his skin.

 

He was waiting for the day when Tony edited JARVIS’s coding, found and corrected the loophole that let JARVIS keep his secret—or the day Peter finally reached his pre-ordained strike list and the logarithms recognized him as the monster he had become. Whichever came first. It would happen eventually, and the _smart_ thing to do would be to get the _Hell_ out of New York. But still he stayed, too chicken to give up everything he had ever known before it started chasing after him with repulsor beams and giant green fists.

 

He had no doubts about where Spider-Man stood with the Avenger’s as of late.

 

“You know that if you ever need any help, I’m sure that Mr. Banner or Sir would be willing to give it to you. Or find it for you,” The voice was so _human_ , so kind. It was so damn tempting. But he _couldn’t_.

 

Breath stuttered, and his heart raced. Spider senses acutely aware of every dust particle in the air, on edge in response to his panic as he mumbled; “I’m sorry, but I can’t. I…I just…I can’t.”

 

The blue eyes of his Aunt May fluttered in his mind. He couldn’t do that to her. Not even to her memory. She didn’t deserve to have her life tainted by both her husband’s sins and her nephew’s resulting psychopathy. If he gave in and talked, it would just be a matter of time before everyone found out. He could see the headlines already and hear the speculation. The accusing. The insinuations.

 

_Everything_ would be brought to life. He just wanted the ones he loved to rest in peace.

 

It felt like a betrayal to her memory—no one who knew her would remember her the same again. All the good in her life—overshadowed by bad taste in men and an unstable nephew. He hadn’t wanted her to know in _life_ , and he sure as _fuck_ didn’t want her to know in _death_.

 

Though if he was honest with himself, it wasn’t just that.

 

Deep down, he knew the papers wouldn’t figure out the details of his life. They’d guess, and maybe even guess correctly—but no one alive knew anything, except of course for himself. And he certainly wasn’t telling.

 

He wanted it all to be forgotten—fuck, he just wanted it to _go away_! Talking didn’t fix anything anyways—it just made everything more raw when he inevitably lost it all again. If anything, talking made things _worse_. His lifestyle was too dangerous to place that kind of trust in anyone, to give anyone that kind of ammunition. He learned that when Gwen’s fragile neck snapped as she whipped around on the webbing he shot out to save her, head to lolling like a broken doll.

 

When her neck snapped, so had he.

 

He just… _couldn’t_. Beyond the deadly consequences of being Spider-Man’s confidant—giving his secrets to Gwen had taken so much from her mentally. The pain he’d see in her eyes…

 

No. He couldn’t do that to anyone else. The risk was too high, and the benefits too little. It was better left alone in the dark recesses of his mind, where the only person it tormented was himself.

 

_And_ the occasional dickhead or two who really _should’ve_ known better in the first place. Peter just wished he could convince his stomach that they didn’t deserve to activate his guilty conscience.

 

JARVIS left him alone to his thoughts. Not the judgey kind of alone he gave Tony Stark whenever the man-child fucked up, but the kind of alone that someone gives when they don’t know what to do.

 

The kind his aunt used to give when he accidentally lashed out at her. It was probably all in Peter’s head, but it still made him feel guilty.

 

Peter huffed and ran his hand through his hair, leaning his head back against the wall. Who the fuck felt guilty over making a _robot_ worry? A robot that only kept his secret because it was programed to be trustworthy? A robot _programmed_ to take care of people?

 

The elevator reached the biogenetics floor and Peter got off, ready to science the Hell out of his day and let everything else fade into the background. He didn’t want to think about the abstract any more. He wanted to focus on something concrete, _factual_. Something that didn’t make his insides twist with emotions he’d rather leave buried—or better yet destroyed. The day selective memory dissolution became a Thing, Peter Parker would make damn sure his ass was first in line.

 

“If you ever need help, Mr. Parker, you know where to find it,” JARVIS offered as Peter fumbled with his backpack to retrieve his notebooks and laptop.

 

“Thanks JARVIS,” Peter hesitated before he placed his junk on the counter and went to the closet to grab a lab coat. What else do you say to a Helicopter AI Parent?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another thing, when I said “His/Her Pants List,” I mean that. In the Skip arc that inspired this fic, the whole thing is a conversation Peter has with a kid he saves from a handsy babysitter. Female babysitter. I thought that was a very progressive idea for the mini-arc because it’s an aspect of child abuse that is often glossed over. Evilness isn’t only contained in the male gender. There are many horrific cases of molestation perpetrated by women. It’s not funny, it’s not cute—it’s not something to be brushed off because all real macho manly men can handle a puny girl’s advances, or even worse—the idea that women can’t sexually abuse men. That’s a dangerous thought that is too pervasive in our society. Okaaaaaay Imma get off my soapbox now. Shut up Patricia and let everyone read the rest of the damn fic.
> 
> Soooooo...comment!? I enjoy reading them. They are love and life (sorry Shrek plz don't kill me)


	4. Science, Bros (that comma is important)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't expect any science bros. Because it's just Brucey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So like, Wade interrupted the flow of this chapter because he was tired of waiting. It’s a part I feel is totally unnecessary—and intrusive—but I didn’t have the heart to tell him no. I get pretty angry with him, but he insists. Persistent little shit. I have no clue how RRR put up with his fuckery for so long. But like, it’s kind of a filler chapter anyways, so I guess that if there was ever a good spot for distraction and questionable writing decisions, this would be the place to stick it—
> 
> “That’s what she said!”
> 
> Fucking Hell. I don’t get paid enough for this.
> 
> “You don’t get paid at---”
> 
> No soup for you!
> 
> However, because I know it’s distracting and weird, I’ll have the version with the Deadpool Commentary Track (pleeeeeease let there be one in the DVD features plz) in a separate fic with other extras stuff. It will be a fic for extras and things that aren’t necessarily important to the actual story. Like, weird first drafts, chapters I nixed for various reasons, smut I couldn’t work into (that’s what she said) the fic, etc. Just shit that didn’t fit (ew, gross! Phrasing, dear god woman). So, because it’s extra stuff it won’t get updated super often. 
> 
> And it won’t be updated in place of this fic—if it’s updated, it means you guys get an extra present for the week, like finding an onion ring in your fries vs finding that you got onion rings instead of fries. I think that most of the entries will be chapters with Wade commentary throughout them? Idk. I’m gonna wait to put it up when I have one more thing to put in it (gross), so it isn’t like wtf why is she hogging the update feed with all her shit who does she think she is running round leavin’. 
> 
> (if enough people ask I might put it up early, so IDK)

About an hour after settling into work, Peter’s spidey senses warned him that someone was in the room, watching him. He figured it was probably Bruce—Tony would have just slapped him on the back and said something inappropriate instead of politely waiting. Bruce however, understood that some people _really_ didn’t enjoy being snuck up on (not that anyone could really sneak up on Peter, but no one knew that so he’d act surprised anyways).

 

Peter looked away from the microscope to could jot down a note—and also make sure it was indeed Dr. Banner watching him and not the super villain of the week. Better safe than sorry when it came to his life. From the corner of his eye, Peter saw that sure enough, Bruce Banner was standing with a small smile on his face. Grinning wide, Peter stretched his back and put his pencil down.

 

“What’s shakin’ bacon?” Peter yawned while turning on his stool to face his mentor.

 

“Nothing much. How’s your project going?” Bruce walked over to the counter and leaned on it, elbow resting casually as he thumbed lightly over Peter’s notes. The man’s forehead wrinkled as he read, nodding occasionally as he chewed his lip.

 

Peter pulled off his gloves and scratched his head with a grimace. “Eh. It’s going,” Peter shrugged and rolled his eyes. “Not going as I _thought_ it would, but that’s what science is all about,” Crossing his arms and leaning back, he hooked his legs in the bars of the stool out of habit rather than as an anchor for balance. “Mother nature trolling away like a twelve year old in the comments section of anything ever.”

 

Bruce laughed, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes as he looked up from Peter’s notes. “You have _no_ idea,” The tone was lighthearted, but his jaw clenched minutely. No green though, thankfully.

 

Peter fought the urge to tell him that he knew a thing or two about how unpredictable science could fuck up a person’s life, but he kept it to himself. _That_ was a whole other can of worms that he didn’t want to ~~re~~ open. Instead, Peter peeked over Bruce’s shoulder, looking for The Avengers Initiative’s primary benefactor. “Where’s Tony? I mean, it’s nice not to have to compete with his big head for space in here, but I do enjoy the banter.”

 

Bruce winced. “He’s at a public relations meeting to talk about Spider-Man’s latest… _actions_. I don’t know if you heard about it yet, but he…well, he got someone else last night,” Bruce looked at his hands, twiddling his fingers nervously, “This time it was different, though…”

 

Peter’s forehead crinkled as he watched Bruce fidget. Leaning forward a bit more, he gripped the stool with his legs tightly. “What was different this time?”

 

Bruce looked Peter in the eyes, face hard. “This time, the man died.”

 

The air in Peter’s lungs vanished, and it felt like Colossus sucker punched him. Blood drained from his face and the room started spinning, almost knocking Peter off the stool before his spider senses kicked in so he barely managed to grab the table top at the last second. “D-d-died? Sp-Spider-Man k-killed him?” It felt like the room was deadly silent except for Bruce’s words echoing faintly.

 

Bruce nodded grimly, frowning a bit at how Peter was gripping the table for dear life after almost falling on his ass. “As usual, the guy had _quite_ the record,” The words were enunciated stiffly with disdain, and Bruce shook his head before continuing. “Most would say he deserved it. Quite frankly, I kinda agree.”

 

Unsteady hands ran through Peter’s hair, fighting the urge to rip it all out—to dig his nails into his skin and just _rip_ it all off.

 

 _Dead_. The man was _dead_. “Sp—spider-Man doesn’t normally kill though? It’s not his M.O.!?” Peter asked, voice higher than normal despite his efforts to reign in his panic. Even the rat bastards that had _asked_ for death, Spider-Man hadn’t given it to them! He made them _wish_ that he had, but he never _actually_ _went_ _through_ with it! He _always_ made sure the wounds were non-fatal, and there shouldn’t have been any real complications other than the obvious, but—!

 

“To our knowledge, we don’t know of any non-supers or civilians he’s actually intentionally prior to last night. We don’t even know of any he may have _accidentally_ killed until now. We’re not sure what’s changed with him—”

 

Peter’s head shot up like a possessed Pop Tart. “What? What do you mean _intentionally_ killed?” His words were desperate, to Hell with acting suspicious! Though, if Bruce hadn’t noticed anything was weird from the near breakdown a second ago, then the man must be more oblivious than Peter thought.

 

Bruce raised an eyebrow, studying Peter as if he were a lab specimen. “Well, what else would he expect a slit throat to do? It was quite gruesome, too. Apparently the man’s head was barely hanging on.”

 

Peter chewed the inside of his cheek and tapped his finger against the table absently, staring off at a point beyond Bruce’s shoulder. Whenever he had his… _episodes_ …his memories were _always_ crystal clear—probably something to do with the spider venom, because just like middle of the night REM nightmares, usually people who had psychotic breaks didn’t remember what happened or what they did during them, at least, not with the clarity Peter had (because this was his life anyways and the rules were made up and the points didn’t matter). Still, he didn’t remember _anything_ like that! And he didn’t have any weird fuzzy memories of last night or blank patches, which would have indicated some sort of memory block, etc. He could recall every moment from last night easily. Yet, Peter Parker knew nothing about a slit throat. What was going on?

 

“Peter?” Bruce broke him from his thoughts with a hesitant question.

 

Peter looked at his mentor, suddenly realizing how weird he was acting. Bruce was looking at him with worried eyes, every line on his face exaggerated by his frown. He was chewing his lip, as if trying to find the best way to word what he was thinking. A cold feeling ran over Peter’s neck.

 

“Don’t you take pictures of Spider-Man for _The Daily Bugle_?” Bruce asked, watching Peter carefully.

 

Peter closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he looked at Bruce he tried to control his trembling hands and nodded. This was it. This was the moment that someone _finally_ figured it all out—and for real, any dodo could have put it together if he was being perfectly honest with himself—so he sat up straight, mentally going over the locations of all the doors and windows he could use to make a break for it. There was no _fucking_ way they were going to capture him, Hulk or not. Not without a fight.

 

Bruce looked away and fiddled some more with his hands for a bit while Peter fought the urge to just shoot off a web and make his escape. Sighing, Bruce turned back to Peter, a resigned half-smile on his face that seemed to drag his tired eyes down with it.

 

“I know I probably have no right to ask, but how close are you to Spider-Man? I only ask because…” Bruce trailed off and waved his hand, “Because I guess I worry about you. He seems…very… _hurt_ , and he’s…well, he’s not very stable?”

 

Peter’s jaw dropped. Literally. He was literally staring at Bruce with his mouth doing its best impression of the super massive black hole in the center of every galaxy; all he needed was a quasar or two. Seriously! If they were playing charades there was no way anyone wouldn’t guess what he was going for unless they didn’t know what super massive back holes were.

 

In which case, Peter didn’t want to play charades with them anyways.

 

“Huh?” Peter replied with all the wit of a drunken baboon. He wanted to rewind and replay what just happened, because quite frankly, it was pretty unbelievable. And hilarious. _Bruce was worried about Spider-Man being a bad influence on Peter_?

 

Bruce blushed a bit, looking back at Peter as he scratched the back of his head, “Just be careful? I know it’s not my place, but just…yeah. Be careful. And if you ever need help, just give me a call or something. I enjoy working with you, and I know Tony has as well—you know…whenever he pops in.”

 

“Th-thanks, Bruce. I-ah-I appreciate it,” Peter reached to fiddle with his glasses (a habit he _still_ couldn’t break even though he hadn’t worn glasses in years, but he never remembered in time, so he’d clumsily abort the motion halfway to scratch the side of his face because eczema is more socially acceptable than invisible glasses) and looked at the ground, feeling his own ears burn. _Of_ _course_ Bruce didn’t fucking know! If Bruce had figured it out, he’d have Hulk smashed Peter to smithereens. “I’ll, uh, I’ll be careful.”

 

Bruce smiled warmly and reached his hand out momentarily, before yanking it back and shoving it into his pocket—as if he wanted to pat Peter on the shoulder but decided not to at the last second. With a few recommendations for his project and an uncomfortable wave, Bruce left Peter alone.

 

The lab felt empty when Bruce left, and Peter stared into space for a while before he shook his head and got back to work. He had a lot to think about, but Peter pushed it to the back of his mind for now.

 

Now, it was time to get back to doing some mother-fucking science.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at how awesome I am! You get two new chapters! So like, don’t kill me because this is a little late. I did say Mon/Tues. (don’t hurt me) But you get two chapters because they’re both kinda boring, and like, nothing sucks more than two weeks of boring updates.
> 
> Also, I had a dream that I was chilling with the Avenger’s and Deadpool because I was an Avenger (but like I wasn't a super hero or ninja-like I was just a lazy good for nothing so IDK why they let me join), and then Spider-Man pops in and is all like hey guys I’m Spider-Man, and I look off to the side at a mirror and ask myself, MID-DREAM, “Since when did Sony let Spider-Man play with Deadpool?”
> 
> In my dream, I realized that what was going on wasn’t real and broke the fourth wall.
> 
> Of my own dream.
> 
> I broke the fourth wall of my own dream.
> 
> What is my life?
> 
> Soooooooo....comment? Plz? Thanks.
> 
> *also, to reiterate, the Deadpool Commentary Track will be coming soon (phrasing!) to a fic near you.


	5. Gee I Wonder Who Is Following Peter It’s So Not Obvious Subtle Author Award Goes to Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter does his part for the environment, and the author finally let's Deadpool come (gross)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I see a fic titled “Peter Parker Picks Pickled Peppers,” or something like that, and I’m like fuuuuuuck there’s another fic I’m accidentally stealing from, lol. I swear I had that line in before I saw that fic! Lol XD Honestly, seeing that fic was what inspired me to actually begin posting this story because I was like oh fuck I need to get this out before someone else beats me to the punch (which is pineapple flavored and really tasty so I need to get there before it's gone).

The lady at the desk waved (jutting her chest out to emphasize her _quite_ ample bosom) as Peter walked past her desk. Peter gave a lazy wave back at her and then gripped his backpack straps tightly once he exited the building. It was a little later than he normally left, but Bruce’s suggestions really helped and Peter lost track of time, glued to his project—until JARVIS informed him it was well past time to go. Why exactly the little shit hadn’t told him sooner, Peter didn’t know (though he suspected it had to do with his, ahem, _extra_ - _curricular_ activities—but little did the overprotective nanny know that Peter wasn’t really planning on hero-ing it up that night).

 

The street lights were on, but even without them it wouldn’t have been very dark in New York City. You know, “City That Never Sleeps” and all that. The walk home from Avengers Tower was usually pretty uneventful—at least until he got closer to his neighborhood, which was definitely _not_ the side of NYC you’d see on HGTV—and that gave Peter plenty of time to think about the bombshell Bruce had bitch-slapped him with earlier that day. So humming softly to himself, Peter walked, mind whirring over the latest plot twist in his far too twisty life.

 

“So, who offed the Ball-less Skeeze from last night?” Peter frowned and adjusted his backpack. And, just as importantly for what reason was he killed? Was it suicide?

 

Peter shook his head and pressed the crosswalk button on the stoplight pole, leaning against it while he waited. “Doubt it.”

 

The man had so _eloquently_ requested life (read: begged unattractively).

 

The light turned on and Peter straightened up, looking both ways because people in New York liked to ignore the crosswalk lights Hooking his thumbs around his backpack straps again, Peter walked onwards, flipping off and rolling his eyes when someone honked at him.

                                                                                                    

“Asshole,” he muttered when the guy sped past him the moment Peter’s foot touched the curb—nearly hitting him—before the countdown on the crosswalk even started.

 

Maybe someone had a grudge—there were certainly enough angry people in NYC for that to be the case—but if that was the case, then was it against the almost-rapist (he _hoped_ the guy was only an almost-rapist) or against Spider-Man? Peter mused as he absently kicked a soda can on the ground—too lazy to pick it up, too concerned about the environment to leave it without finding a recycling bin to chuck it in.

 

“Am I being framed?” Peter asked aloud. With a loud clang, the can hit a bench when Peter kicked it harder than he meant to. It bounced back and landed upright, wobbling a bit like it was going to tip over. Satisfyingly enough, it didn’t. Normally Peter would fist pump at that, he barely noticed it.

 

The paranoid part (well, the self-loathing _and_ paranoid parts) of Peter wondered if he _had_ actually done it as Spider-Man last night and just couldn’t remember (read: blocked it/party of one destination Kookooville/possessed by a supervillain/etc.).

 

Dragging his feet, Peter mechanically walked over towards the can. His face was eerily blank, eyes staring at nothing. The only expression his body gave away was the white-knuckled death grip he had on his backpack straps, thumbnails twisting and picking at the fraying material.

 

Was he actually unhinged to the point where he could forget committing cold-blooded murder? Peter chewed the inside of his cheek and stared into space for a moment, before he clenched his jaw hard enough to click his teeth.

 

What the _fuck_ was going on? Peter raised his foot and crushed the can into a disk—probably a little bit _too_ perfect of a disk for normal human strength.

 

He knew one thing, though. As much as the thought made his skin crawl and the voice of Uncle Ben rang in his ears, telling him about _fucking_ _responsibilities_ —and fuck was _that_ screwed up or what—Spider-Man should _not_ be patrolling the city for a little while. It wasn’t safe.

 

“Wish I knew _who_ it wasn’t safe for,” Peter grumbled, flipping the aluminum disk into the air with his toe, years of hacky sack practice finally becoming a skill worth having honed. Looking around quickly and not seeing anyone, Peter smirked and popped the flattened can up a little higher into the air with the side of his foot. Carelessly pushing off the ground, he spun into a kick: aiming at a recycling bin across the street. With a muffled crack, his foot connected with the disk sending it high into the air—soaring towards its target with a velocity beyond the capabilities of an Olympic gymnast and bounced off the brick wall—banging into the back of a sign—pinging a pole—and—

 

“Fuck yeah!” Peter grinned when the can bounced off the wall once more and sank into the bin. And yes—it _was_ the bin for aluminum.

 

Goosebumps prickled on the back of Peter’s neck, interrupting his victory when he whipped around to see what was going on. He was in the part of the city where he needed to pay better attention—so he scanned the nearby buildings until he locked onto the one that set off his senses. On the roof of the building there was a quick flash of shadow, but it was gone before he could even make out what it was. Peter’s heart hammered in his chest and he lowered his hands, ready to bolt if needed.

 

_Someone was following him_.

 

Peter turned away and began walking again, ears open for anything suspicious.

 

Had someone figured out who he was? It was bound to happen (again) sometime. Peter knew that he wasn’t always as careful as he could be—and yet it would only take one second of sloppiness and all his hard work would come crashing down around him. Everything would be for naught.

 

Peter turned to the right, skin prickling in warning right before a knife slashed through the air, aimed at his head. “Fuck!” Peter yelped and twisted to dodge it, backing into something solid and warm and rather…smelly? Like, stale _Taco Bell_ in a Dumpster, smelly? Another knife (or maybe the same knife as before, but how would that be possible?) was pressed to his throat and the cold metal threatened to fillet him at any sudden movement.

 

“Well if it isn’t little Peter Parker. Shouldn’t you be off picking some pickled peppers instead?” A reedy male voice sang in his ear.

 

Peter’s blood froze.

 

“Well _duh_ , I know that’s Peter Piper _jackass_ , I was teasing the little squirt. Jeez. Everyone’s a critic!” The voice left his ear and seemed to be talking to someone else. Perhaps there was an accomplice? “You guys take all the fun out of everything. Fun suckers!” The voice’s owner jostled Peter when he shook his fist in the air at what Peter _really_ hoped weren’t (but was beginning to suspect _were_ ) imaginary voices. He hissed when the knife blade cut into his throat a little—not enough to slice him open, but enough to sting like shaving with a dull blade.

 

“Woops! Better be a bit more careful there. Can’t have you bleeding out on me before we even get to have any _fun_!” The man moved the knife away from his throat a little, but not enough to let Peter get any ideas.

 

“I know, right? It’s already over 7k words into the story and we’ve barely gotten any screen time—really, none at all since the author decided to nix the Deadpool Commentary Track in chapter four!” A hand reached around his chest and held him snugly against a firm body covered in leather—and Peter _really_ hoped that was a gun digging into his back and that the man wasn’t just happy to see him.

 

“C-can I h-help you with s-something?” Peter stuttered, desperately thinking of escape plans that didn’t involve revealing his identity—especially since the way his captor was moving around, as if he kept forgetting he was _holding_ a _knife_ _to_ _someone’s_ _throat_. It was making Peter anxious and twitchy, and all of the weird lumpy things that dug into his back were not only uncomfortable, but indicative of an alarming amount of weaponry for a guy kidnapping a gangly looking nerd. Clearly, this was no run-of-the-mill “wrong place, wrong time” NYC mugging. It wasn’t much of a stretch to worry that the guy knew who Peter _really_ was—because let’s face it, supposing it was a non-Spider-Man related kidnapping, regular Peter Parker the geeky and impoverished photographer wasn’t exactly choice ransom material.

 

The man would be lucky to get some pocket lint and a Tic Tac.

 

“Who are you?” Peter asked when his first question went unanswered. He closed his eyes and listened carefully, wincing at the flood of information the spidey senses brought and trying to single out his captor’s heartbeat—and sensing if there were any more nearby. There was one other a little bit away—but they weren’t close enough that Peter could ask for help.

 

The attacker stilled for a second (surprising Peter out of his focus) shutting up completely for the first time— _as if he were listening to someone_. There was the possibility that the person Peter’s senses had picked up on was communicating with the man, but Peter doubted it. The man rambled worse than Tony Stark.

 

You know what? It would be just his luck if he was being targeted by some nutcase that thought he was on a mission from God to kill people or something.

 

“It is I! The grrrreat Papy—wrong fandom, sorry,” The man giggled and patted Peter on the shoulder before continuing. “It is I, the great Deadpool! Come to make your execution—or kidnapping, as is the case _this_ time—” Deadpool jerked behind Peter and hissed something incomprehensible to something that Peter still couldn’t see.

 

The man’s arm tightened around Peter’s chest, before he leaned into Peter’s ear.

 

Peter thought he was going to be sick.

 

”I’m going to hold you hostage until Spider-Man makes with the hero-ing and tries to save your pretty little ass—” The man cut himself off and turned to look towards the side again.

 

“Yes, his ass is _very pretty_ —” The man rocked violently, nodding as if his life depended on it, allowing the knife to scrape dangerously at Peter’s skin again.

 

“But anyways, then I’m going to kill him—good point, White— _or_ her, the boxes and I disrespect all gender identities equally. You might even say we’re an equal opportunist mercenary!” His captor suddenly giggled, chest quaking and wiggling—and started to tap Peter’s neck with the flat part of the knife, resting his forehead on Peter’s shoulder.

 

“That’s hilarious! Pan-executional! Get it? We’ll kill anyone regardless of orientation—except kids and animals,” the man stiffened and jerked the knife back to position, nicking Peter’s throat again. “That’s just fucked up. That’s where we safe-word out.” The man nodded, and Peter’s neck started to sting as oxygen entered the slightly broken flesh.

 

“Oops! I gotta be more careful. Can’t kill the bait before it’s done being bait!” The man laughed when he leaned over to look at Peter’s throat, examining the damage.

 

Seeing no fatal wounds, he hoisted Peter over his shoulder to take him wherever it was they were going. A sheet of paper tacked on the alley wall caught Peter’s eye and his jaw dropped in disbelief.

 

tO SpiDEr-mAn,

PoOl wAs X

ps niCE bOOty

 

And underneath the writing was a stick figure drawing of what might have been Peter being kidnapped? It could also very well have been a picture of a donkey, seeing that taped to it was a lock of Peter’s hair (when the fuck had that happened?).

 

All of which was done in _crayon_.

 

“Tell me you at least used _Crayola_ instead of _Rose_ _Art_?” Peter found himself asking in disbelief as he bounced around on Deadpool’s shoulder.

 

“ _Rose_ _Art_ is the shit parents give the kid they don’t like! Party invitations are _way_ too important for that,” Deadpool scoffed. “Did we use Rose Art? The Hell kind of question is that? What does he think this is? Amateur hour? Pfft.”

 

Peter looked longingly at a wall, wishing he could bang his head against it. Of all people to have gotten the slip on him, it had to be a moron that used _crayons_ to write ransom notes. Fucking. _Crayons_.

 

“I’m never living this one down.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looky there! It only took like 8k words to find the Deadpool! There are a couple of things in this chapter that might possibly change. Maybe. Idk. A few minor things—like the soda can thing, I might later change it up a bit so it like foreshadows shit or whatever fancy artsy writer thingee I come (gross) up with. Mostly it’s just there so this fic goes from 90% just Peter thinking and 10% things happening to 75% Peter thinking shit and 10% shit going down (the hooooooole any Tiny Toons fans out there? That was the best thing ever) and 15% author just filling in space.
> 
> So anyways, here we are entering the part of the story where shit actually goes down. Like, actual plot instead of world building. I know, right? Wow.
> 
> Anyways, I'm gonna start a thing where I quote my favorite line from the chapter, because I'm douchey like that. Fuck off.
> 
> "The man would be lucky to get some pocket lint and a Tic Tac."
> 
> I like that line because it exudes two of my favorite things to read in fics: self-loathing angst and humor.
> 
>  
> 
> Anyways now I'm gonna list shit I stole and prostituted for my own use in this fic:  
> Papyrus from Undertale, "Deadpool Commentary Track" (an allusion to The Big Bang Theory)
> 
> And that's all, fohkes! See ya next week (unless you comment, then I'll reply to you, and technically none of you will be seeing me but you get my point)


	6. It's Never too Late to Change Perspectives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Backtracking as a method of progressing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to apologize for the late post. The 23rd was the anniversary of a friend’s suicide, and I found it difficult to do anything, really. Please get help if you feel that way—I guarantee there is someone who will miss you. Fight it. It doesn’t make you weak. It’s been two years and there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t remember him. You are worth it. You are loved. You can beat it.
> 
> Anyways, now that everyone is sad, let's get on with the story and read a pretty light-hearted chapter. Because yeah.

_Soooooo now what_?

 

“We wait for another job,” Wade spoke in the empty room, sprawled on a filthy brown recliner. The leather was shredded in places, ripped apart as if it had been used to fend off a werewolf—or, more likely, a Wolverine that one time Wade made him spill a beer (word of caution to everyone: NEVER make Wolvie spill a beer! sooooo not worth it, no matter how funny the tears were). Suspicious red-brown stains splotched all over the vile thing and were especially concentrated around the headrest—though it _was_ hard to tell stain from chair since the original color of the leather had long been forgotten.

 

_Some of those stains might be Sriracha sauce._

 

**Valid point—the buffoon has the table manners of a rabid goat.**

 

Katanas, knives, and other sharp pointy things skewered it every which way, like an over-sized pincushion. Oddly enough, the recliner’s handle was gone—a pile of charred wood littering the floor where it would have been.

 

**Trust me. You don’t want to know that story**.

 

Wade liked to think of the bullet-hole ridden chair as his throne, smiling fondly as he caressed a greasy cheese dust stain on the armrest with his thumb.

 

_Throne of Games_?

 

“Ooooh!” Wade squealed in delight, thumping the chair with his hand hard enough that a cloud of dust exploded out of the cushion. “I like that!” Wade spat out bits of lettuce and meat in his excitement, slinging a half-eaten chimichanga in his hand haphazardly. One particularly adventurous chunk of tomato managed to stick to the ceiling, blending in with other red spatters that already decorated the dusty crevices of the popcorn ceiling.

 

**The only games you play on it are Russian Roulette and Pokemon ever since—**

 

“Well, _I_ think it sounds cool _and_ _Yellow_ thinks it sounds cool, so majority rules! Fuck you very much,* Doucheface McQueen!” Wade interrupted with a glare before petulantly throwing the rest of the chimichanga down his throat, barely stopping to chew. Chapped lips stretched into a toothy grin, revealing bits of food wedged in his teeth as he flipped off the sky and tore off another bite of the chimichanga.

 

**Ugh. You disgust me**.

 

“You fsay da nishest tings ‘bout mfeh!” Wade sprayed—

 

_LOLOLOLOL!!!!!!!!!! WADE SPRAYED!!!!!!!!! LOLOLOL!!!!!!!!!_

 

—more half-masticated chimichanga particles while guffawing at White’s disgust. Pounding his free hand on the chair arm, he smeared the greasy cheese dust stain and made the chair wobble as he laughed. A piece of plaster cracked off from the ceiling and fell with a soft _thwak_.

 

**I hate you. Both of you**.

 

Taylor Swift’s voice broke through Wade’s laughter, reminding everyone that Band-Aids don’t fix bullet holes—a fact that Wade occasionally forgot.

 

_You know, I was pretty meh about this song before I saw the music video_.

 

**You’re _still_ “kind of meh” about this song now that you know it’s not about girl power and badass feminism, but T Swift’s tiff with KP**.

 

_Yeah, but there was a solid two weeks when it was my jam! Good times_.

 

Wade leapt up from the chair and dug around for his phone in the seat cushions—singing along of course because _fuck you_ it’s a catchy song, and it was the Kendrick Lamar version of course you filthy philistines—finding a glow-in-the-dark yo-yo, a moldy turkey drumstick, three broken Pez dispensers, and a miraculously pristine Mew card before finally seeing the screen’s glow right as T Swift declared Katy Perry’s blood ran cold.

 

_The nerve of her! Giving those back-up dancers a better contract Shaaaaame, for shaaaame_!

 

“ _You live like that, you live with ghosts!_ ” Wade sang as he hit _accept_ a little too enthusiastically and put the phone to his ear, “Deadpool’s Pools of Dead Execution Services. You name ‘em, we maim ‘em*. How can I be of service?” He flipped back onto his throne: head first, and weaving to the side just enough to not lose an ear on a katana poking out of the leg cushion. He hated losing ears—it always made him feel off balance for a minute or two before it grew back (#healingfactorprobs #youonlydienever #swag). With one hand, Wade felt around the floor until he found the takeout bag and grabbed another chimichanga out of it.

 

**That was quite shameless, stealing lines from other fanfics**.

 

_At least we’re here as an easy way to credit to the original creator of that phrase, the great Orcusnox (Cat9894)_.

 

**Yes. We _live_ to serve. Damn author-overlord bitch**.

 

“Do you do superheroes?” The voice on the other end was electronically altered, though it _could_ have just been a robot on the other end. Strange days, man. Strange days.

 

_You never know what kind of whack jobs are gonna show up in Spidey’s ‘verse_.

 

“Hmmm. Depends on the hero and the pay. Moreso the _pay_ than the _who_.” Rolling his eyes, Wade shrugged the shoulder he used to hold the phone to his ear, punctuating “pay” and “who” by stabbing the chimichanga into the air. Unfortunately, physics were not on Wade’s side and the chimichanga filling popped out of the tortilla and fell all over Wade’s face, like a strange but delicious fountain—some getting into his nose and the hot sauce burned every bit of skin it touched.

 

Sputtering, Wade flinched and lost balance, falling out of the chair and landing on his head. “Fucking shit on a horse’s dick!” Wade whimpered, feeling every sore on his back rip open with the friction as he slid off the chair, burning and raw. His left eye watered and head pounded as he lay in a heap and sadly took a bite of the chimichanga. Instead of sinking into deliciousness, his teeth clicked hard when they tore through the empty tortilla.

 

The filling had all fallen out.

 

**Serves you right for waving the damn thing around like a barbarian. You don’t even _like_ them! You just like saying the word**!

 

Wade glared and flipped the air off again, almost forgetting the potential client he had on the phone as he flung the sad tortilla across the room, feeling his head carefully to assess the damage.

 

**Pooly. The phone**.

 

Wade rolled his eyes and grabbed the phone, holding it to his ear—sucking in a deep breath when it grazed over a weeping blister.

 

“—tastic! I need you to get rid of Spider-Man,” The maybe/maybe not a robot sounded quite gleeful.

 

“Can do. But it won’t be cheap,” Deadpool said absently, looking at the hand he used to explore his wounds to see how badly they were bleeding and/or oozing.

 

The phone beeped with a text message.

 

“Will that number suffice?” The words were laced with a sneer, but the effect was dampened by the theoretical electronic voice changer.

 

Taking the phone from his ear, Wade opened up the message and whistled at the number he saw.

 

**That’s a _lot_ of zeroes**.

 

_And those are definitely commas instead of decimals_.

 

**Why would there be multiple decimal points?**

 

“Shut up, assholes,” Wade whispered absently, blinking. He pretended to mull it over for a moment before answering. “Sounds like a reasonable number to me.”

 

The caller snorted. “I thought it would get your attention.”

 

“What did the kid _do_ to you?” Wade asked furrowing his brow bemusedly, trying to ignore the tightening feeling in his face as the hot sauce irritated his welts. “Did he murder your parents?”

 

**Kill his kid**?

 

_Eat_ _his kid_?

 

**The fuck is wrong with you!? Why would you even _say_ that**?

 

“Yeah, Yellow, that’s just _wrong_ ,” Wade muttered, nose scrunched in disgust and immediately regretted the motion when his face went from inflamed to burning.

 

_Hey, I’m just saying it’s gotta be something super-duper fucky. And orphan meat is pretty fucked up, though I have it on good authority it’s quite tender_.

 

**Carl from _Llamas with Hats_ is _not_ “good authority!” And anyways, if it was this guy’s kid, it wouldn’t be _orphan_ meat. Get a dictionary, dumbass. Better yet, get some help. You ain’t right.**

 

“It’s none of your business. Contact me on this number only when you get the job done,” The voice snapped and the maybe-robot hung up.

 

_Who shit in his Cheerio’s_?

 

**_Who gives a fuck? We got a pretty sweet job right now. Got any plans, Pooly_**?

 

“Well, Spider is one of those goody-goody types, isn’t he?” Wade tossed his phone behind his head, smirking when it thudded lightly on his mattress. Thankfully, the burning feeling was starting to fade again as his wounds began healing over. The merc absentmindedly flicked a piece of lettuce and he propped his head on his other fist. The lettuce soared through the air and landed on the TV screen, under one of Blanche’s nostrils. He was lost in thought, however, so he didn’t laugh.

 

_Yeah, I think so? I mean, jury’s still out on the cannibal thing_.

 

**I wish I had a physical body so that everyone could hear my eyes roll. Anyways, Spider-Man is definitely one of the good guys. Well, except for…well…you know**.

 

_Except for what? Doesn’t he usually hang out with the Avenger’s when he isn’t out Hanniballing it up_?

 

**I’m ignoring that because I refuse to give you any more attention than necessary. As to his loyalties, he _does_ occasionally partner with the Avenger’s, however he’s not exactly on their Star Student roster. You know. With the whole ‘Virgin Vigilante’ thing he does on the side**.

 

_Oh yeah! That. The whole non-chemical castration thing. The goofy nickname they gave him. I forgot about that! But honestly, can anyone really fault the guy for that? Especially if he eats—_

 

**I swear I’m going to scream if you say another word—**

 

“I wonder if that has anything to do with our client?” Wade mused, steepling his fingers and resting them under his chin, oppa “Been-A-Dick Cum-In-Her-Thatch as Sherlock Holmes” style.

 

**Don’t know, don’t care. You saw that number. Hell, Spider-Man _himself_ probably would accept the offer**!

 

_Always thinking with our wallet, White. Great to see that some things never change. Aren’t you kinda curious_?

 

**Yes, it _is_ interesting. But I’m more interested in the bottom line**.

 

“Hey! I think I got an idea!” Wade flapped his arms and kicked his legs, like a happy toddler, “What’s the name of that one squirt who takes those pics of Spidey for _The Daily Bullshit_ or whatever the fuck that cum-rag is called?”

 

**It was something super generic, as if Stan tried to give him the most ordinary name he could possibly think of without _actually_ calling him John Smith**.

 

_I think it was alliterative like ours_?

 

**I believe it also sounded like a bad dick pun.**

 

_Yeah, yeah. We definitely mocked it at some point. Dick Dillards, maybe_?

 

**No, it wasn’t _that_ obvious. Perhaps Jordan Johnson**?

 

_But wasn’t it the first name that was the most dick-like? Maybe it was Willy_?

 

**The word you are looking for is “euphemistic.” Other than that, I think you’re right, though it wasn’t W like ours. Maybe Frank**?

 

_What else is eufemastatical—_

 

**What did I do to get stuck with such a moron?**

_—with dick? There’s Jimmy, Frank, Woody, Peter_ —

 

“Peter Parker! That’s it!”

 

_No, maybe it’s something Rogers_?

 

**That’s Steve Rogers. You know. _Captain America. _Guy with the spangled ass**.

 

_Oh right_. _Forgot about him. He’s the one that fisted Hitler, right?_

 

**You’re doing it on purpose**.

 

“It’s Peter Parker. I’m pretty sure of it,” Wade stretched his arms out in front of himself, popped his knuckles, and stood up with a wiggle of his hips. “I think we have a newspaper in here somewhere, with his name in it.”

 

The room was a pigsty. Empty—and not-so-empty—beer bottles and cans covered every surface that wasn’t the floor, and most of the surface that _was_ the floor. Empty take-away bags covered the remaining areas that weren’t taken by the cans and bottles. Napkins were balled up, moldy and covered in food, being used as cozy little homes for every kind of creature that inhabited New York City.

 

_Hey, was that #pizzarat over there_?

 

**This place is _revolting_**.

 

“Hey look! A newspaper!” Wade pointed at a corner and pirouetted gracefully towards it, leaping over the various micro-ecosystems along the way, and landing in a plié when he reached the spot.

 

_NEW FIC IDEA, AUTHOR!!!! AVENGER’S ON DANCING WITH THE STARS MAKE IT HAPPEN BITCH_!!!!!!!

 

“Bam! Peter _fucking_ Parker, BITCHES!” Wade picked up the newspaper with a flourish and shook it towards the sky, pointing at the name on the front page of _The Daily Butt Plug_.

 

**Congrats. For once you’re right. But what the Hell are we going to do with him**?

 

_Please tell me we’re going to kill him so Spider-Man comes after us to avenge his death? Please! Please! Pleeeeeeeeease! We haven’t killed anyone at all in this fic!!!!!_!

 

“Hmmmm…nah. I mean, we _could_ , but I think just holding him hostage will do the trick. If he thinks we’ve already ko’d his best buddy, he’ll probably boohoo at the Avengers and they’ll kick my ass and let Stark dissect me. _But_ , if Spidey thinks we _might_ kill his li’l pal, he’s more likely to act all rash and righteous and come alone—that’s what she said,” Wade shrugged, wadded up the paper and tossed it over his shoulder. Heading towards his room to grab his laptop from wherever the fuck it was, Wade hopped over the mounds of garbage, opting for leap-frog style this time. He was _pretty_ sure he last had the _Toshiba_ out for Wade Winston Wilson’s Wankfest Wednesday.

 

_Fun sucker_!

 

**Don’t worry. We still get to kill Spider-Man**.

 

_True. I guess that there is still that_ …

 

_Wait a minute! This is a Spideypool fic! We aren’t going to kill him, are we_?

 

**Well, they _do_ call orgasms “little death,” don’t they**?

 

_Touché_. _The sex better be worth it. Better be real fucking worth it_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, fun fact about this chapter: I was reading a fanfic where Deadpool said “fuck you very much,” and I actually thought it was a catch phrase of his. Of course, I didn’t do the smart thing and look it up. I made an ass out of you and me instead. So yeah. Fuck me very much. XD My bandwagon Deadpool fan roots are showing. (the fic I’m referring to is “Tale as Old as Time,” it’s delightful, you should read it if you haven’t, plus, like, it’s actually finished)
> 
>  
> 
> Anyways, “you name ‘em we maim ‘em” was not coined by me, but by the delightful Orcusnox (Cat9894). If you’ve never read “The Boys Wear Red,” then stop what you are doing and read the fuck out of it right now. It’s the fic that sold me on the idea of Dark!Peter. I was a nonbeliever. So really, she’s the reason this was ever started. So read her shit. It’s good.
> 
> Other things I quoted:  
> Taylor Swift’s Bad Blood,   
> Llamas With Hats by Jason Steele,   
> “Gangnam Style” by Psy


	7. Chapter 7.1 Dat Ass Doh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wade spies on Peter. That's it. That's all that happens. This chapter is literally just Wade stalking Peter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.........heh heh heh. When the author of a fic updates two months late. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z7Ln04baGik&ab_channel=DisneyAndSpiritLover
> 
> So yeah. Um. I have no excuse.
> 
> Except that this is one ass fucking long chapter. This chap and the next one were originally one chapter, but like, look at it. It's almost 3k long.

“ _Damn_. Dat _ass_ ,” Wade whistled sharply as he watched the ill-fated Peter Parker exit that fugly tower of Stark’s (which _totally_ wasn’t compensating for anything, no Sir-ee) through a pair of binoculars. The whistle was loud enough that it caught the attention of a passerby on the ground, who looked up, and stared for a solid minute at the red clad man swinging his legs back and forth over the edge of the building. It was a testament to how often weird shit went down in New York City when the passerby merely shook his head, rolled his eyes, and sighed as he walked away.

 

Wade leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees as he stared intently through the binoculars. Resting them in one hand, he reached outward with his other and made little pinching motions. The effect was somewhat ruined when Wade forgot to take into account how binoculars worked and his vision was momentarily obscured by his own hand.

 

_I’d soooo tap that_.

 

“Stark!?” Wade shouted indignantly into the air above his left shoulder indignantly, ripping away from Peter for a moment. “Ewwwwww! Even _I_ have better taste than that!” Wade wrinkled his nose, bunching the mask up with it. He resisted the urge to wince at the friction of the material against his inflamed skin, but his breathing stuttered for a moment despite his best efforts.

 

**You don’t even have a body, dumbass. You can’t “tap” anything**.

 

Wade looked back through the binoculars and searched a bit to re-find Peter Parker. After a moment, he found the kid kicking around a can. “ _You big disgrace, kickin’ your can all over the place_ ,” He sang softly to himself.

_Being a know-it-all dickface isn’t going to make you any friends, Whitey Tightey! And also, in the words of the great Jimmy Fallon, ew! Definitely not Stark. The target. Man, even Kimmy Gibbler in Fuller House had better taste than that. That dickwad had a cute accent to go with his ass, at least. All Stark has is wrinkly old man balls and daddy issues._

 

“ _Singin_ ’ _we will, we will fuck you_ ,” Wade mumbled, watching the kid tense up and frown.

 

**You know, wrinkly old man balls and daddy issues sounds vaguely familiar, as if I know someone else like that** …

 

“Yellow’s got a point. There’s a reason you have no friends,” Wade lazily flipped off the sky to his right, taking his eyes off Parker to glare.

 

_Yeah! Stop being such a sourpuss!_

 

Wade turned back to looking through the binoculars. The kid no longer had the can, and was instead gazing ahead at nothing.

 

_Dammit! You made us all miss Petey make that epic kick shot…_

 

 “What kick shot?” He asked with a frown, seeing no trace of triumph on his mark’s face. He didn’t see anything that would have made a convenient kick shot target, either. There was a recycling bin across the street from the kid, but unless—

 

**When you two start fucking, ask him about it. You aren’t supposed to know yet, anyways. NEVER trust Yellow with spoilers, dumbass author**.

 

Rolling his eyes, Wade returned to Peter-watching. He noticed his target was getting a bit too far away for comfort, so Wade stood up and arched his back. A manic grin twisted through the mask at the satisfying popping sounds crackling up his spine as he stretched his arms behind himself. Casually, Wade began frog-marching along the roof to follow poor Peter Parker, twisting his head to loosen his stiff neck.

 

The building they were on wasn’t _too_ close, but not so far that he couldn’t see Peter Parker with only the aid of his cheapest pair of binoculars (cheapest not counting the ones he got from a Happy Meal back when they gave out cool toys, but Wade was pretty sure that if he had brought those ones instead, he’d still be able to spot Parker—he just wouldn’t be able to make out the kid’s facial expressions). Honestly, he was disappointed in Stark for overlooking it. It was a perfect lookout spot for any decently trained marksman.

 

“Stark’s getting’ sloppy in his old age, tsk tsk,” Wade shook his head absently as he scanned around to see where exactly Parker was heading. It had been a last minute thing. He’d done a quick internet search on Parker, found out where he worked, and remembered the oh-so perfect lookout spot he’d discovered a while ago.

 

**This _is_ the same guy who invited a terrorist organization to his house**.

 

“Bingo!” Wade whispered when he spotted his target walking towards a part of town that had some pretty sweet alleys to duck into.

 

_And by sweet, he means dark, creepy, and smellier than his own asshole the morning of Taco Tuesday’s walk of shame_.

 

Back tracking a bit and noting the distance between the roofs, Wade did an impressive bit of mental math before stopping at a specific point on the roof. Grinning, he looked over his shoulder.

 

“For the most immersive experience, we recommend you pause, open up Youtube, and find ‘Sail,’ by AWOLNATION and play it,” Wade gave a thumbs up.

 

_Freeze frame_! _I recommend highlighting the next unbolded paragraph so timing is easier_.

 

**For best results, make sure you are starting at 00:25/00:27ish**.

 

With a deep breath, Wade charged—leaping off the building with a little pirouette (at least, he _thought_ it was a pirouette, ballet wasn’t really his thing, but he liked the word).

 

“SAIL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” He laughed.

 

Wade landed on both feet with a loud _crack_ , and stumbled forward, throwing his hands up to catch his fall. “Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck,” He whimpered as he scraped his leather covered hands on the rough surface of the rooftop, feeling a blister or two pop on his palms.

 

**Congrats. It appears you have a compound fracture in your leg**.

 

_Worth it, though. Oh, and you guys can turn off “Sail” now. The moment is over_.

 

Wade rolled backwards onto his ass and looked at his leg, pouting at the damage. Sure enough, there was a sharp bulge poking against the red leather of his suit in a spot where a bulge should _not_ be.

 

**Hurry up and set it before it starts healing. Your whining always pisses me off**.

 

_He meant that in the nicest way possible, though I must admit that your whining is pretty fucking pathetic_.

 

Taking a deep breath, Wade eye-balled it and unzipped his costume at the ankle of the broken leg, up to the knee.

 

**Because the importance of being able to access random body parts was a Thing Wade learned a long time ago—along with the importance of being able to cover back up**.

 

So zippers. Yeah.

 

Blood sloughed out of the costume the moment it had a place to go, thick and viscous with pink plasma droplets racing onwards. Wade whimpered a bit at the thought of trying to remove his costume later that night when it cemented to his skin.

 

_Eh, put some Windex on it, you big baby_

 

The break wasn’t too fucky—fairly clean stress fracture—so he took a deep breath…

 

And blew it all out in one go, chickening out at the last second and gasping at the way his fingers jerked his leg with the aborted movement.

 

_C’mon Pool. You can do this. Pretend it’s Francis. You hate Francis, right? Let’s snap his neck for old times’ sake, eh_?

 

“You aren’t Canadian, you fucking poser,” Wade bit out, sweat dripping down his face too quickly for the material of his suit to wick away.

 

But Wade took a deep breath, and wrapped his hands around his leg, bracing his thigh against his arm. He closed his eyes and remembered Francis’ cold blue eyes, thin lips twisted in a vengeful smirk as he watched Wade frantically jerk and scream in the oxygen chamber. Wade imagined his hands cupping the psycho’s chin from behind, gently holding his tormenter’s life in the purgatory between life and death. Opening his eyes, he released his breath and jerked his leg back into place before Francis’ head disappeared with a sickening crunch.

 

“Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!” He howled, eyes squeezed shut, trembling all over. Panting like a smoker, he rested his head on his good leg for a second, laying the bad one out straight, ignoring the way his muscles and tendons squirmed like snakes to realign themselves and regenerate. It was silent except for Wade’s breathing and the muffled sounds of New York City traffic from down below.

 

**Whenever you’re done acting like a pussy, please let me know. It’s not like we’re on a time sensitive mission or following someone or anything important like that. Feel free to** —

 

“Fuck, put your unofficial Golden Girls merchandiseTM panties back on,” Deadpool wheezed, and braced himself with his arms, grunting when he leaned forward. “I’m getting up—it’s only been like _maybe_ a minute, impatient little fuckwit,” Wade rolled his eyes and pushed himself back up, gingerly putting some weight on his leg. It hurt like _Hell_ , like, Blanche singing “It’s a Small World” operatic style _Hell_ , but it was obviously beginning to heal since the bleeding had stopped and he actually _was_ able to put weight on it. Wade pulled out his binoculars and looked back up—

 

_Where the fuck did those come from? Where did he keep them, in his asshole_?

 

**In the sea of lazy author forgetfulness, along with several other half-assed plot devices and ripped-off literature**.

 

—and searched a bit for the Parker kid until he sighted the rumpled brown hair and tattered backpack. The kid was walking past an alleyway where a couple of dogs were chewing on a yellow shoebox—

 

_Message received_

 

—and a cat was pissing on a white pizza box, digging it’s claws—

 

**Very professional. Real mature. Classy, even** —

 

—the cat was panting heavily and lay down.

 

“Hey! It’s giving birth!” Wade chirped excitedly.

 

**FINE! You win! Be that way, see if I care**.

 

Wade frowned and grimaced. “Never mind. It’s just taking a shit. The Hell did that thing _eat_?”

 

**GET YOUR ASS TOGETHER AND WATCH THE TARGET FUCKHEAD**!!!!!!

 

Wade winced, but swiftly jerked the binoculars away from the cat to follow the boy (man?). He walked along with the kid, enjoying the evening air cooling down—carefully staying out of sight and still wincing whenever he walked on his left leg. Already the blood was drying and gluing his flesh to the suit—painfully stretching his weeping sores and cysts every time his calf muscles flexed.

 

Because Wade wasn’t ever allowed to forget that his skin made blue waffle look like the innocuous breakfast pastry it was named for.

 

“What should we do for dinner?” Wade asked out loud, trying to keep his mind off of the state of his skin as he jumped onto another building, landing a bit more carefully with a more agile _thud_ and no more broken bones. However, there was definitely a ripping sensation that made Wade hiss.

 

_DUCK_!

 

“Really? I was thinking more—” Wade asked, trying to keep his watery eyes open despite the pain.

 

**NOT THAT KIND OF DUCK, BUT PETER PARKER IS TURNING AROUND TO LOOK AT YOUR UGLY MUG KIND OF DUCK**!!!!!

 

Wade barely had enough time to hit the ground, hiding behind the too-short-to-be-regulation rim of the rooftop as Peter Parker turned around and looked directly at Wade.

 

“Fuck me! How did he know where to look?” Wade yelped, lying down as flat as he could, though the way he jutted his ass up into the air ruined any chance of concealment.

 

_Well, sometimes you aren’t as quiet as you think? Anyways, look up and see where he’s going. There’s no fucking way he didn’t notice you dive bombing so who gives a shit about stealth now. If he’s good enough to spot you in the first place—even if you aren’t in full ninja mode—then he’s definitely good enough to know to run like Hell._

 

“Smart thinking, Yellow. Who needs White, anyways?” Wade nodded, gingerly moving his leg to make sure nothing got out of place again.

 

**I resent that! See if I ever let that little shit have a moment again**.

 

Nothing was off, so he hefted himself up and looked over the edge, squatting like a frog (because jumping up into action like that was fun). The sidewalk down below was pretty empty—it didn’t seem like there were very many people around. Probably because the area of New York they were currently in wasn’t exactly known for its competitive PTA bake sales.

 

_I personally think their brownies are really_ … _special lololololol_.

 

“Yeah,” Wade snickered. “My favorites are,” he paused covering his mouth in glee.

 

**Any singular thirteen year old from 2006 had a more mature sense of wit than you two have combined**.

 

“MARY JANE’S!!!!!!!!” Wade cackled and stuffed his fist as far into his mouth as it would go, considering the fabric covered his face.

 

_ISN’T SHE THE ONE WHO LIVES IN HOUSE 420 ON HIGH STREET_

 

“That one was weak,” Wade shook his head.

 

_Yeah, it was pretty_ —

 

**Stop thinking about weed! He’s turning up ahead—we’re going to lose him if you two don’t grow the fuck up**!

 

“Fuckington McFuckhead’s fucking nuts on a fucking stick!” Wade hissed and with a few quick calculations, he was backing up to run; but not to jump onto the next building like last time.

 

The break in his tibia was completely healed now, though there was a _zing_ to it that made him cringe while pushing himself forward and off the roof as hard as he could. The gun previously holstered to his belt was in his hand, aimed, and fired—faster than a cheetah fart—discharging a grappling hook with an unnecessarily dramatic puff of smoke. It struck the landing of the apartment Wade was aiming for and latched on, letting Wade swing his way—Spider-Man style—to the spot where little Peter Parker was trying to give him the slip (and not the fun kind).

 

Using his free hand, Wade pulled out a knife—

 

**Wait! Where’d the binoculars go? Wasn’t he holding a pair? Did he just chuck them**?

 

_Nah, the author is using the deus ex machina no jutsu and banishing them into the realm of forgotten tools, gone until they’re needed again to move the plot along_.

 

—and slashed at his target, hoping to get a lock of hair.

 

Nothing said “Help I’ve been kidnapped!” quite like a lock of hair taped to a note. Sometimes you had to stick with the classics.

 

“Fuck!” Peter yelped, startled, and ducked out of the way of the knife—momentarily stunning Wade into forgetting what he was doing so that he almost didn’t get a tuft of hair from the kid’s head.

 

**That’s _probably_ something worth remembering. Something isn’t quite right here. He’s much too aware of his surroundings. He should have looked towards the apartment the grappling hook caught on, then you would have gotten him by surprise. Watch your back, Pooly—he shouldn’t have known we were attacking from behind**.

 

_It’s probably just Pooly’s ranktastic fart breath that caught his attention. I’m sure everyone in a fifty mile radius can smell it LOLOLOLOLOL_

 

**Hysterical. Your wit knows no bounds**.

 

_Or maybe the smoke machine and the loud clacky bang bang the grappley gun made were pretty loud and clacky bang bangy. Just sayin’. That thing’s about as subtle as Pooly’s pit stains. Maybe Spidey taught the kid a few tricks, even? What if they’re secret lovers! Oh wait, never mind, that’s kind of difficult when they’re the sa—_

 

**Not yet! Donb’t spoil it, fucktard. This is the part where I pretend I don’t fully know what’s going on and hint that Pooly is missing something. So Pooly, think carefully. If Peter had heard the grappling gun, which he _shouldn’t_ have considering how far away the building it caught onto is from here, then he would have looked over where it caught on the apartment. _Not_ at us!**

 

Wade frowned at that. He hated it when the boxes knew more than he did and refused to share their intel. What was the point of being a character that fucked the fourth wall over (repeatedly) when he didn’t get all the deets? Shaking his head, Wade focused back on the task at hand and attempted to ignore the voices in his head. It was go time.

 

The kid backed up, the startled look gone and instead his brow furrowed, and jaw clenched in concentration. Of course, Wade still had the upper hand—and with a click of his teleporter, he was standing right behind the kid, thankful that it decided to work that time.

 

**Why isn’t he more afraid? I’m telling you there’s something weird about this one. I feel it in my bones**.

 

_You don’t have bones! Or a skull for that matter…_

 

**That’s not even how the line goes.**

 

The kid backed into him, and Wade thrust his knife—

 

_Phrasing! Not a good enough reason to use thrust._

 

**I’m surrounded by _idiots_**.

 

—at his neck, holding steady as a warning, letting the cold metal rest gently, but firmly, across the thrashing jugular.

 

“Well if it isn’t little Peter Parker. Shouldn’t you be off picking some pickled peppers instead?” Wade singsonged into his ear, enjoying the way the kid tensed in his grip. Fear was just _so_ delicious—especially when he was the cause of it!

 

**That’s Peter _Piper_ , dipshit**.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I doubt that was worth the wait. But here you go.
> 
> Things I quoted/mentioned:
> 
> Frozen  
> Fuller House  
> We Will Rock You  
> Sail from AWOLnation  
> My Big Fat Greek Wedding  
> Golden Girls  
> Archer
> 
>  
> 
> Soooo as for posting schedule, I will try to return to weekly updates, but I can't make any promises. Please don't kill me k bye


	8. Seven Point Two Because Chapter Seven Was Long AF And The Author Didn't Want to Rename All Her Notes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wade's side of the kidnapping. Like, there's obviously no saintly ulterior motives, but there are things that I think are important to know from his end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look. I'm back. I'm not dead XD I think I might end up posting once every two weeks? I might go back to weekly once I catch back up to his fic. There's a lot of notes I need to reread and shit because I suck as a human being. So here ya go. It's a longer chap, though? Fuck this fic is such a beast XD

“Well _duh_ , I know that’s Peter Piper _jackass_ , I was teasing the little squirt! Jeez. Everyone’s a critic!” The exasperated roll of his eyes was lost on his captive, since the kid couldn’t see him. Or hear the voices that Wade was talking to, but that was a different matter.

                                           

**Well, look at that. Wade knows his nursery rhymes. Who’da thunk it?**

 

 _Are tongue twisters considered nursery rhymes_?

 

 **That’s a good question. Too bad the author is too lazy to get off her ass and look it up**.

 

_Psht. She wouldn’t have even had to get up. Just click a couple things and type a few words._

 

 **Alas, we digress**.

 

_Yeah, get back to Pooly butchering tongue twisters, lazy author._

 

 **Come on. Impress us with your wit**.

 

“You guys take all the fun out of everything. Fun suckers!” Wade shook his fist at the **_imaginary_** —

 

_Fuck you too, author lady_

                                                               

—Boxes, jostling Peter, who let out a pained hiss. The noise caught Wade’s attention, and with a frown, he looked around at the kid’s neck and inched the knife away. But only like a little bit. Didn’t want the kid getting any ideas.

 

“Woops! Better be a bit more careful there. Can’t have you bleeding out on me before we even get to have any fun!” Wade chirped, delighting in the way his prey tensed in his arms—taking in a deep breath of the kid’s hair to add to his own creep factor.

 

 **More like he took a deep breath because he’s a perv. Be honest. There was no ulterior motive for that you nasty**.

 

The kid’s hair smelled like poverty—cheap bar soap, mothballs, and there was a slight hint of bullshit, but that last one was probably from being in close proximity with the Iron Douche all day. That was the only thing holding him back from nuzzling his face in the brown mess—

 

 _Phrasing_!

 

—was that he didn’t want to get Stark Stink on his clothes.

 

 **That and we _do_ have a certain reputation to uphold here**.

 

The kid was wiry, but firm—like Wade used to be back in the day when his dad was still using him as his own personal punching bag. Good times.

 

 _Be careful with the merch, Merc_. _If he dies now, then the story is finité, and we only just got here_!

 

“I know, right? It’s already over 11k words into the story and we’ve barely gotten any screen time—really, just a chapter of me eating since she cut out the Deadpool Commentary track in chapter four!” Wade pouted, slumping his shoulders a bit, draping himself on Parker, holding him to his chest like a teddy bear. Wade frowned when he felt something digging into his crotch. He looked down—

 

 _Really? The Binoculars? This is just getting sad_.

 

\--and saw that his binoculars from earlier had somehow tangled into his belt buckle.

 

 **And there they go—the binoculars once again into the sea of abandoned plot devices**.

 

 _But like c’mon, she had to fix that little mix-up. Pooly’s a perv, but he ain’t that gross_.

 

Even through the leather, Wade could feel Parker’s heart racing. He looked down and noted that the kid’s hands were clenched into fists. Interesting.

 

 _You know what else would be interesting? Those pale, smooth, perfect hands wrapped around_ —

 

“C-can I h-help you with s-something?” Peter Parker stuttered, his voice strained and breathy.

 

Wade froze for a second. That voice was familiar. Zoning out, he tried to figure out from where—absently chewing the inside of his cheek as he thought.

 

 _I know that voice too_!

 

 **Of course you do. You already know how this goes down, asshat**.

 

Wade frowned, but he shook it off. He hated it when the boxes didn’t cue him in on things—but they were strange and selective about the info they released to him. Taking a big whiff again of Parker’s hair, he smiled sappily. What was he doing again?

 

_Pooly, the kid asked a question_

 

Behind the mask, Wade furrowed his brow, looking down at the guy in his arms. Oh yeah. He opened his mouth to ask the kid to repeat the question—

 

 **He asked if he could help you with something, the sweet little lamb. How precious**.

 

 _He could help us finally tap some as_ —

 

“It is I! The grrrreat Papy—”

 

 **Nope**.

 

Wade frowned and looked over his left shoulder. A woman who was watching the scene from her apartment shut her curtains as fast as she could, but Wade wasn’t paying attention to her.

 

 **Wrong fandom**.

 

Wade’s eyes opened comically wide and he laughed. “Wrong fandom, sorry!” He shook his head and squeezed Parker’s shoulder. “It is _I_ , the great _Deadpool_! Come to make your execution—”

 

**Wrong mission**

 

Wade flipped off the sky. “—or kidnapping—I know what I’m talking about, shit nuggets—I’m going to hold you hostage until Spider-Man makes with the hero-ing and tries to save your pretty little ass—

 

 _Gotta give him that. He has_ quite _the ass._

 

“—yes, his ass is _very pretty_ —but anyways, then I’m going to kill him—"

 

**Spider-Man could be trans. It’s impolite to assign pronouns to strangers**

 

“—good point, White— _or_ her, the boxes and I disrespect all gender identities equally. You might even say we’re an equal opportunist mercenary!” Wade giggled and waggled his eyebrows—

 

 **Wade doesn’t have eyebrows, dumbass. Whose story is this anyways**?

 

…Wade giggled and waggled what _used to be his eyebrows_ —

 

 **Better**.

 

 _Get your shit together, cunt. We’re pan-executional and don’t give a fuck about dimensions and shit_.

 

Wade beamed and giggled, fluttering his fingers excitedly against Parker’s shoulder.  “That’s hilarious! Pan-executional!” Wade tightened his grasp on Peter and shook him slightly, leaning into his ear. “Get it? We’ll kill anyone regardless of orientation—”

 

 **Except kids and animals**.

 

Wade nodded firmly, and his voice deepened, all signs of amusement gone. “Except kids and animals,” he growled. “That’s just fucked up. That’s where we safe-word out.”

 

_Though we’d make an exception for that Joffrey ass-face_

 

 **I’d be down with that**.

 

Wade shrugged.

 

 _Careful, Pooly, we aren’t killing this guy, remember_?

 

Wade looked at Peter and yelped when he realized he’d nicked the kid’s throat. Again. He caressed the nick with his thumb, making sure it wasn’t anything to worry about. “Oops! I gotta be more careful. Can’t kill the bait before it’s done _being_ bait!” Noting the wound wasn’t anything worrisome, he decided that that was enough stalling. He threw Peter Parker over his shoulder with an exaggerated grunt and turned towards their next destination.

 

 _Where are we taking him again_?

 

 **That one warehouse. The one that we used as a stakeout to spy on that Mafia wannabe—Antonio Petrocelli, I think his name was? He smelled like garlic**.

 

_Good call. At least that one doesn’t smell as bad as the one we used to keep the money from the Chicago job_

 

 **That’s because we used it to store the chickens we got from the Hartsford job before we figured out what to do with them**.

 

 _Oh yeah! That explains a lot_.

 

“Tell me you at least used _Crayola_ instead of _Rose_ _Art_?” Peter interrupted, voice somewhat muffled, and for a second Wade was confused, and then it hit him.

 

Wade jolted to an immediate halt and gasped in horror, slapping the sides of his face with his hands—which was somewhat tricky considering Parker was thrown over his shoulder, but somehow he managed to maneuver his arm around the kid’s waist. Don’t ask for the physics.

 

 **The _nerve_**!

 

 _Did we use Rose Art???? Fuck. Ing. Rose Art!? The fuck does he think he’s dealing with here_???

 

“ _Rose_ _Art’s_ the shit parents give the kid they don’t like! Party invitations are _way_ too important for that,” Wade scoffed, nostrils flaring. “Did we use _fucking_ Rose Art? The Hell kind of question is that? What does he think this is? Amateur hour? Pfft,” he shook his head with a snarl.

 

“I’m never living this down.” The kid muttered softly, sounding exhausted.

 

_I feel like we should be offended by that. Also, when did we put up the note? You know what, never mind. It’s not my writing here. The author can leave gaping plot holes wherever she wants. Not my monkeys, not my circus._

 

Wade adjusted Parker so that he was forced to look at his (Wade’s) ass or risk getting a crick in his (Peter’s) neck. Closing one eye, Wade pulled the trigger and fired the grappling hook gun, aiming for the landing of a building across the street. The hooks caught and with a quick yank to test to make sure they had caught, Wade hit the retract button and they were zooming over the street, only barely missing a semi-truck on the ascent.

 

 _Good physics. Much science. Very scientifically possible, this is. Great writing is being done here. Tell me again why you’re just a minimum wage cashier at an undisclosed hardware store_?

 

Wade clumsily flipped over the landing, sending a yellow flower box over the railing with the force of his body. It made a satisfying shattering sound when it hit the pavement below. Leaning over the rail, Wade looked down\ and sniggered.

 

“Man, you better quit pissing her off. Cuz you are domesticated af,” Hooting with laughter, Wade didn’t notice that Parker’s head was scraping against the brick wall of the building until the kid hissed. “Woops!” Wade yelped and turned so that Parker’s (admittedly) pretty face didn’t become hamburger meat. Wade pointed the grappling gun at another building and fired, smirking at the puff of smoke it emitted.

 

 _Seriously though, there had to have been a more efficient way to get to wherever the fuck we’re going_.

 

Wade silently agreed, but he knew better than to say anything out loud. Paying careful attention to his footing and direction in case the universe decided to fuck him over—or more, fuck Peter Parker over, because he was _pretty_ sure civilians didn’t have healing factors—Wade pushed the retract button and was slung onward.

 

**I’m going to be a good little convenient plot mover and ask why “Peter Parker” is A. Not struggling. B. Not panicking. And C. Asking rude and personal questions about our preferred school supplies brand since clearly no one else is going to bring it up.**

 

 _Because obviously you can’t trust a fucker that uses Rose Art. You just can’t_!

 

 **You also can’t trust your own _kidnappers_ , so I doubt that _trust_ has anything to do with it, Shitlock Holmes**.

 

“I think White has a point, Yellow. Something’s weird about this guy,” Wade frowned. Something was off, but he just didn’t know what it was. He lifted his crotch a bit and barely missed teabagging an unsuspecting pedestrian. It would have been hysterical—but his family jewels were too important to risk like that.

 

“Who are you talking to?” Peter Parker asked faintly, then mumbled “Please let it be some sort of com. I don’t need any more crazy in my life.”

 

Wade didn’t answer him, but his face was severe when he landed on the building without as much unnecessary flourish.

 

_Sooooooo as much as I hate to ever agree with White about anything, I think I’m starting to agree. Something is off with this punk. He’s way too sassy for someone being kidnapped by a mercenary_

 

“Wow, things must _really_ be weird if White and Yellow agree on something,” Wade got a running start, then jumped over to the neighboring building—bouncing Parker on the solid landing. They had maybe 15 more minutes before they reached the warehouse. 15 more minutes of shitty, unnecessary parkouring.

 

 **How does he know about coms? _Normal_ civilians don’t pay that kind of attention to in-battle superhero communication—or really, superhero communication of _any_ kind. Is “com” even typical civvie terminology for communication devices in battles? I don’t know what it is that Peter Parker knows that we _don’t_ , but clearly it’s something big**.

 

 _THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID_!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

“Fuck! YELLOW! I hate it when you do that!” Wade screeched as he jumped to another roof, stumbling a bit in the recoil of Yellow’s screaming, jostling his leg more than he meant to, which was fully healed, but the dried blood inside rubbed against his sore skin and ripped at the cancerous legions. He winced. Tonight it would probably be easier to just cut his leg off and regrow it than try to pull the suit off. Shaking his head, Wade took a deep breath and ran again, pushing off the edge of the building’s roof as hard as he could.

 

 **THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU, YELLOW**!!!????

 

 _It’s your own fault, White! It was too perfect of a set up_!

 

“He’s got you there, White,” Wade mumbled as he landed on a metal roof with a loud clatter, feet leaving dents. There was a large metal door on the roof—approximately the size and shape of a skylight. The steel door was covered with many heavy duty bolts, unsubtle in their design to keep people _in_ rather than _out_ , “Here we are, Petey boy,” Wade announced cheerfully and opened the door, gripping Peter tightly as he bent over.

 

 **Seriously? You left it _unlocked_? The fuck kind of villain _are_ you**?

 

“I’m not a _villain_. I’m the loveable anti-hero. Duh!” A huge shit eating grin stretched across Wade’s face and contorted his mask into a grotesque facsimile of a smile.

 

“Where the Hell _is_ this place?” Peter whined as Wade took them into the building, nimbly climbing down a ladder.

 

“Welcome to _Casa del Muerta Piscina_!”

 

 **I’d correct you, but I think everyone knows that you know damn well that is nowhere near the correct translation**.

 

“I’ve heard it both ways!” Wade cackled.

 

 **I’m pretty sure you haven’t**.

 

 _Put your hair back on, White. Oh! And Pooly! Use your self-aware comic book powers to hide a pineapple somewhere! Quick_!

 

 **I hate you**.

 

 _Clearly someone isn’t a fan of delicious flavor_.

the 17oooth word is moist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there ya go. Next chap is some new stuff, though. So like, get all excited because woot woot. Some shit goes down y'all. Sort of? Kind of. Like, not like, aliens invading the city down, but like, we finally have the main players introduced. And by main players, I mean the main sources of conflict. You'll see. I'm being vague. I'm just making things worse. I swear I didn't mean to XD
> 
> Also, there are some differences between the two povs of the kidnapping. That is totally intentional and not just me being too lazy to check and make sure everything aligns perfectly *smiles awkwardly and tries to be convincing is it working plz tell me its working*
> 
> But like there are two sides to every story and no one is gonna remember everything exactly the same so it totally makes sense (and isn't copping out in anyways) that the two scenes are different nothing to see here totally being truthful on purpose I did it yeah
> 
> Shit I stole from:  
> Psych  
> Undertale  
> Game of Thrones (another fandom I have no right to play with)  
> The Office (I think that's where the whole 'that's what she said' thing came from?)  
> Archer
> 
> And I think that's it? If I left anything out, lemme know. Cuz cred is important and I like to make sure my credit score is in the green *laughs at lame joke*
> 
> Byeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee plz comment cuz they are literal crack I print them out and roll them up so I can snort pixi stix so feed my addiction k thanx (not really, but like, I love reading them they make my day)
> 
>  
> 
> Oh wait! Did you like the 17oooth word? If not, then give me some suggestions and I might change it. Like, every now and then so if yours isn't chosen first don't be upset. I think next I might change it to pussy. I'll dedicate it to everyone who needs a little more of it in their life oooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh no she didn't


	9. Wade isn't as in Control as he Thinks he is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wade thinks he knows what's going on, but as usual, he doesn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeeeeeeey look at this. I posted not just on time, but early. Good for me. I should have waited until tomorrow, but this chapter kinda wrote and edited itself for some reason (i.e. it flowed like majestic unicorn ass hair). So yeah. Here ya go. Comment please they are crack and highly appreciated as a sign of my genius.
> 
> Also, I ain't know shit about guns despite living in the most trigger happy state in the entire United States. I tried to be vague as possible, So yeah.

“Well, that chapter title sounds foreboding,” Wade frowned as he plopped Peter onto a conveniently placed chair in the middle of the warehouse’s loft—away from any rails because he learned that lesson a long time ago. The screams were fun: the mess? Not as much.

 

**It might just be a reference to how much sway we have over you**?

 

_Or it could just mean you done fucked up, son_.

 

“It makes me uncomfortable when you call me son,” Wade straightened up and scanned the musty room to see if he had any rope lying around. He frowned in concentration and squinted his eyes, looking over some defunct machinery. Worse come (gross) to worst, he could use some of those cables. They looked sturdy enough.

 

_Cable. Good times. What’s he been up to lately_?

 

**There should be some rope in the corner by the window if memory serves**.

 

“Thanks!” Wade smiled brightly at the air by his shoulder. Glancing down at his hostage, who _really_ looked a lot more relaxed than he had any right to be, yet underneath the calm, Wade saw an edge of _something_ in those wide—adorably wide, like, roll over Bambi and give the fuck up, _wide_ —eyes. There: in the way his nostrils flared and his shoulders tensed. Frowning, Wade pointed at the kid—calling forth the spirit of his second grade teacher to lend him her steely gaze—and wagged his finger condescendingly. “You,” Wade poked Parker in the middle of his forehead, trying hard not to laugh at the kid’s glare, “Punk. Don’t get any ideas.” Retracting his finger, Wade crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m just gonna grab some rope. K?” With a small jerk, he tilted his head back a bit to stare down his nose at Parker. Miss Maslany would have been so proud.

 

**You are soooooo cliché**.

 

Peter looked up at Wade and rolled his eyes, shaking his head slightly with an annoyed snort. “Yeah,” Derision drenched Parker’s tone as he dug his nails into the chair’s arms. “You go get some rope to _tie me up with_ ,” Voice rising in volume and pitch, eyes narrowing, Parker punctuated each word with a violent squeeze of the chair’s arms. It was a wonder the fabric didn’t rip open. “And I’m just gonna stay. Right. Here. Nice and quiet, so _you_ can go grab it. No need to worry about the hostage, go on,” Shaking his head more deliberately, Parker glared and muttered something too low to hear, crossing his arms—but now digging his nails into his own skin.

 

_DAAAAAAAAAAAAAMN son_.

 

**Even _I’m_ impressed with that level of sass**.

 

Deadpool was impressed as well, but tried his hardest not to show it. “Listen, _kid_. I’m actually kinda starting to like you,” Wade tapped Parker’s cheek lightly.

 

_And the award for understatement of the year goes to_ …

 

Wade took his hand off of Parker and flipped off the air over his left shoulder without losing a beat. “But mouth off to me again and I’m going to have to do something _neither_ of us is gonna be too happy about,” Wade sneered and leaned over the kid. He inhaled deeply, and deliberately raised his hand—reveling in the kid’s slight wince—only to plop it down and gently ruffle the boy’s hair, fighting the urge to giggle at how soft it was. With an extra springy twirl, he turned away and walked over to the corner of the room to get the rope.

 

“Poor you. Mocked by your own hostage. If you give me a minute I might be able to work up a few tears for you. Oh wait. Nevermind. I can’t!” Peter snarled.

 

Wade stiffened and his hand twitched over the rope.

 

_LOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOL_!!!!!!!

 

**It’s like he doesn’t even _care_ if we kill him**!

 

“Huh. That’s an interesting thought, White,” Wade unfroze and frowned as he picked the rope up, shaking off a few spider carcasses and roach droppings.

 

**The author says that was an important idea, Pooly. So make note of it**.

 

“Meh,” Wade flapped his hand in the air dismissively—which served a dual purpose since it was covered in cobwebs: sassy _and_ functional.

 

_Click_.

 

“What was that for?” Wade huffed and stood up straight, snapping the rope to make sure it was still good.

 

**_That_** _wasn’t me._ ** _That_** _was an onomatopoeia representing the sound of Peter taking the safety off the gun he **found** **wedged** in the seat cushion of the chair **you** **sat** **him** **on**. Gotta say, not your best moment there_.

 

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Wade muttered and turned to look at the kid, frowning. “You shouldn’t have done that, kid.” Tsking, Wade shook his head and focused to see which gun the punk had found.

 

**I gotta say. He’s got style**.

 

_Yeah. Pooly, can we keep him? I like him. He seems like a lot of fun_.

 

“We’ll see. I agree, though. Kid’s got some _mejor cajones_ on him,” The gun the kid had wasn’t anything too exciting, at least. It wasn’t a pea shooter by any means, but it also wasn’t a glock. Probably something he’d nicked from a ~~hostage~~ asset a while ago. Wade doubted he’d be regenerating from an unaliving any time soon from the business end of that thing. Still, he had to give the kid some credit. Not many would hold a random gun they found with the steadiness the kid had—especially not when in the throes of butt clenching terror. Hell, many wouldn’t even know how to _use_ the damn thing.

 

**We all know you speak like a million languages. Why do you insist on saying things incorrectly**?

 

“Because the author of this fanfic is too fucking lazy to look up the translations and is going off of what little she remembers from high school. I thought we already established that?” Wade groused, taking the kid’s stance in. Clearly this was not his first time holding a weapon. Looked like little Peter Parker had some private peculiarities.

 

_Definitely not the best alliteration I’ve come across. Might want to work on that one a bit before publishing this, author lady. Just a bit of friendly advice_.

 

“Who are you talking to?” The kid asked, gesturing with the gun. Holding the gun steady and face hard—lips thinner than Billy Ray Cyrus’s career as a country singer.

 

Parker meant business, in other words.

 

_I think I just came_.

 

“Me too,” Wade nodded. Then he remembered what they were doing and he clapped his hands—the effect somewhat diminished by the rope muffling the sound. “Oh! Yeah! You asked a question, Oh Holder of the Holster--"

 

**The holster is the thing the gun goes in, dumbass**.

 

“Oh! Yeah! You asked a question, Oh _Pointer of the Pistol_ \--"

 

_That was just lame_.

 

“Oh! Yeah! You asked a question, Oh Peter with the Gun! What was the question again?” Wade scratched his chin, watching his hostage’s face remain a hard mask—the only sign of any real emotion was in the way his nostrils flared.

 

**That was even worse than the others**.

 

Peter aimed the gun upward and fired off a warning shot—the bullet hit a beer can that rested on one of the beams, dating back to when the place had been a home for squatters. Wade didn’t see it—but he knew it was there, and he heard it clang around when it hit the ground.

 

“I _asked_ you who the _Hell_ you were talking to!” Peter growled and steered the gun back to Wade, grip still steady as a seasoned sniper, eyes burning.

 

_I don’t think I’ve ever been more attracted to someone since Cable_.

 

**Those abs of Shemar Moore were pretty juicy, though**.

 

_Here’s to wishful thinking. Shemar will always be the Cable of our hearts, even though it’s probably not gonna happen_.

 

“Oh! Yeah! It’s pretty simple,” Wade shrugged. “I’m talking to the disassociated identities in my head that visually manifest themselves as comic book narration boxes,” Scratching his head, Wade prattled on. “I’m not sure whether it’s schizophrenia or Dissociative Identity Disorder, because it kind of shows characteristics of being both. But. Yeah. It’s not anyone physical.”

 

Peter’s eyes showed nothing as he evaluated Wade’s answer, though his forehead crinkled a bit. Eventually he nodded and the grip on the gun relaxed slightly.

 

“So, who hired you?” The gun was still aimed at Wade, but instead of gripping it like his life depended on it, Parker’s fingers absently _stroked_ the metal.

 

Wade wiped the edge of his mouth to make sure he wasn’t _actually_ drooling.

 

**So, is no one going to comment on the fact that we’re being held at gun point by some punk we were supposed to be holding hostage until Spider-Man came to save him**?

 

_Well, way to be a buzzkill, White_.

 

**Just trying to remind everyone how _fucking_ ridiculous this is**.

 

“Don’t know. Don’t care,” Wade shrugged nonchalantly, eyes following the movement of Parker’s fingers. Guns were entirely too phallic in design.

 

**THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING TO HIM FOR!!!???? _GET_ _THE_ _GUN_ AND _GET_ _CONTROL_ OF THE SITUATION ASSHOLE**!!!!!!

 

_OOOOH ARE WE PLAYING CAPSLOCK AGAIN I LOVE THIS GAME_!!!!!!

 

“STOP SHOUTING IN MY HEAD!!!!!!” Wade screeched and started pounding on his head with his fists, rope flailing about wildly.

 

_Sorry_.

 

**My apologies**.

 

“Ugh. Hate it when you shits do that,” Wade mumbled, massaging his temples—feeling slightly sick at wet oozing underneath the red leather. He was _not_ looking forward to dealing with that later. Hopefully it wouldn’t get on his eyelids—that was probably the next worst thing to ripping off dick skin.

 

“What was _that_ about?” Peter was frowning, gun lowered and eyebrows furrowed.

 

“The boxes went all capslock on me,” Wade said absentmindedly, leaning his head back to avoid pus getting on his eyelids. “They got the idea from the _Order of the Phoenix_ and enjoy torturing me with it every now and then. Fuck you, JK Rowling! And fuck capslock!Harry too!” Wade shook his fist in the general direction of the UK, still leaning his head back awkwardly.

 

**Pretty sure that was North. You know, towards Canada. Your own people**?

 

“Oooooooh kaaaaaay. Sure. I’ve been kidnapped by an insane person. Great.” Peter whined and rubbed his forehead _with the gun_.

 

_He doesn’t even know the half of it!_

 

**Really, he’s one to talk. Hello pot, meet kettle**.

 

“He thinks he’s got it all under control, but he doesn’t know our secret weapon!” Wade screeched excitedly, clapping like a seal—effect still diminished by the rope muffling the sound—in glee, partly because he loved surprises and partly because he was now in the clear of future nonsurgical removal of his eyelids (i.e. the pus had stopped oozing and he could move his head again).

 

The kid paled and held the gun up again. “W-what secret weapon?” The kid swallowed and took a deep breath before his eyes hardened again. “The ability to talk someone to death because I think I already knew about that one,” Despite how the kid’s voice strengthened, Wade could still see panic clearly written in his unblinking eyes and tense fingers.

 

**He’s got you there**.

 

_The things I would do to that mouth_ …

 

“Not exactly, kiddo.” Wade laughed and advanced towards Peter.

 

Peter’s eyes narrowed and his breathing stuttered. “Come any closer and I _will_ shoot!” His voice was strained and his grip was so hard on the gun it…looked like the handle was being crushed?

 

**Of course it’s not being crushed. Only a super could do that**.

 

_Was that sarcasm? Because I feel like that was sarcasm_.

 

Wade laughed and continued walking towards the kid, sneering as he held the almost forgotten length of rope in his fist. He watched the kid’s eyes widen when they took it in, and then—

 

_Bang_!

 

Peter squeezed the trigger without batting an eye.

 

His face was blank—no more panic in his eyes. It was like his soul had vacated the premises.

 

Without even trying to dodge the bullet, Wade laughed maniacally as it tore through his chest, barely missing his heart—spewing gore all over everything—ignored the pain, and let his own insanity charged adrenaline take over.

 

_SOOOOOO HOT_!!!!!

 

“ _If you’re aiming to kill, then I got bad news, son_. _I got 99 problems, but dying sure ain’t one_ ,” He sang, complete with a quick little hip gyration and Raven Symoné snap.

 

_D-Pool in the house, y’all_!

 

**If you’re expecting me to join the Hype-Man train, then you’ll be waiting for a very long time. Get out of here. Go play Pokémon Go or something. The chapter’s over**.

 

_Rude_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the Shemar Moore thing, like c’mon. He’d be suuuuuuper hot as Cable. Just imagine it. Tell me you don’t want it (actually don’t because I won’t believe you). If you don’t know who he is, he’s Derek Morgan on Criminal Minds. Hot af. Abs that would make Zeus cry little boy tears for the rest of eternity. That guy. Let's make this happen fandom. #makeshemarcable #shemarpool #datassdoh #moorepool
> 
> Shit I stole, I mean borrowed/referenced:  
> Maslany (Tatiana Maslany of Orphan Black was born in Regina and yeah it’s stupid I don’t care, I don’t know if it counts as a reference especially since I don’t even really watch Orphan Black)  
> Bambi  
> Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone (kind of sort of a vague reference, like, when I was typing it I was like this is familiar where did I get that from, but like don’t strain yourself trying to find it)  
> Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix  
> 99 Problems by JayZ  
> That’s So Raven (the snap, you know the one)  
> Pokémon Go
> 
> If I forgot anything lemme know and I'll fix it real quick k bye
> 
> plz comment :D
> 
> 8=====================D


	10. What in the Ass?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No hobos were harmed in the making of this chapter. Oh hey, is that a new character?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look, I'm on time again! Good for me. Good author *pats self on back*  
> There's a joke here that only one person will get. She knows who she is. I'm not as chatty as normal because I'm tired af from working out and Pokemon Going. Enjoy!

_Ooooh! Does that mean we’re gettin’ some this chapter_?

 

**I doubt it. It’s too early for any relationship consummation to make sense**.

 

“Dammit, White! I was getting excited!” Wade pouted, slumping forward—wincing slightly when the motion jostled his newest wound. The wound itself was healed—but the dried blood didn’t mix very well with his raw skin, or rather, they mixed _too_ well and didn’t enjoy being pulled apart by movement.

 

**“Blue balls” would have been a more apt name, in that case**.

 

“What the Hell _are_ you!?” Peter Parker yelled, gawking at Wade with his mouth agape and chest heaving.

 

_Ooooh! Should we go philosophical, literal, or slap stick for this one_?

 

“Really horny,” Wade blurted out, watching Parker close his eyes and take a deep—but shaky—breath.

 

_Literal **and** slapstick. I like it. We’ll save the philosophy for later_.

 

Peter’s brows furrowed and he mouthed what looked like “What the _fuck_?” Then, opening his eyes, and staring with an expression Wade couldn’t identify, he said “You’re _fucking_ insane.” Shaking his head slowly—hands trembling, jittering the gun.

 

_That wasn’t very nice_.

 

**In all fairness, we _are_ insane**.

 

“Point taken,” Wade nodded, grinning like someone just crowned him Ms. America (before Steve Harvey realizes his colossal fuck up). Jumping forward, Wade wrests the gun out of Parker’s hand—whacking the kid upside the head with the coiled rope while pulling the gun, bending Parker’s wrist at an unnatural angle so that the kid is forced to let go or break a bone—and frowned a bit when it seemed to stick for a moment before coming lose.

 

Staring hard at the kid—who was rubbing his wrist with a horrified look on his face, looking around the room as if the answers to all his problems were playing a demented game of hide and go seek—Wade tucks the gun away, the movement catching Parker’s green eyes.

 

**Really? That joke is so tiresome. Stupid ring pop scene. I swear if I** —

 

Slapping the other end of the coiled rope into his hand, Wade gripped each end and snapped it while smirking at Parker’s flinch. “So, this was fun and all—"

 

The kid pales, eyes seeing nothing except the rope in Wade’s hands, hands clenching and unclenching into fists. For some reason, Wade feels an urge to toss it away—tightening his grip instead, as if the rope will run away if he doesn’t hold it as hard as he can. There’s something… _wrong_ about all of this—but if Wade had started listening to his conscience a long time ago, then he wouldn’t be where he was today.

 

_Insane_?

 

Wade grits his teeth.

 

**No, I think he’s referring to being alone without a single friend in the universe—or multiverse for that matter**.

 

The rope starts to fray, slightly, under the ferocity of Wade’s grip as he starts twisting it.

 

_Or maybe he just means looking like a rotten walnut covered in squirrel piss_?

 

“I MEANT RICH YOU FUCKING SHITS!” Wade screamed into the air on his left side, kicking a hole through a crate he’d been standing next to—blasting it into a wall.

 

Parker jerked in surprise, narrowing his eyes in confusion, then threw his hands up to guard against the shrapnel when the crate shattered against the wall.

 

_Well, I guess you do have that_.

 

Wheezing, Wade tried to relax and focus instead on what he was doing.

 

**You’re acting like a child**.

 

With a jerky motion, he flipped off the air. He looked at his target while taking a deep breath and imagined the reward money written across the punk’s forehead.

 

**Think of the money, Pooly. The money. Do it for the money. You’re already going to Hell—growing a conscience right now isn’t going to earn you any brownie points. It’s too late for anything good to come your way**.

 

“Where was I?” Wade asked, shaking his head, as if he could soft-reset his brain. “Oh yeah,” Looking up, he hardened his eyes and started slapping the rope into his hand menacingly, focusing on the motion to get back in the zone. “I was _saying_ , that this was fun and all,” The sneer gradually returned to his voice and soon it was like nothing had ever happened—except for the death grip he had on the rope, slapping it over and over again.

 

_Pooly’s found his balls, guys! No need to worry_.

 

“And I _do_ really mean it was fun—” The ~~kid’s~~ little shit’s eyes glazed over, but with each slap of the rope, he flinched like he was getting hit in the balls. He looked through Wade, eyes wide and unblinking.

 

**You enjoy this, Wade. This is a game for you, dickweed**.

 

“Bu-ut,” Wade stuttered slightly— _fuck_ , Parker may have been in his 20s, but he looked waaaay younger. There was something _fragile_ about him. “I think it’s time we got back to more important matters.”

 

The kid closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and when his eyes opened again—Wade couldn’t put his finger on it, but something was different. And not a good different. Like, supervillain origin story _different_. Like, hide yo kids, hide yo wife, cuz he climbin’ in yo windows _different_.

 

**An interesting pop culture reference there. Oddly fitting**.

 

Ignoring everything in him that said _no_ , _bad_ , and _wrong_ , Wade did what he did best and prattled on. “Aaaand by important matters, I mean the part where you cooperate,” He dramatically pointed at the ~~kid~~ target.

 

_That does not look like the face of someone willing to cooperate_.

 

**Gonna have to agree with Yellow on this one**.

 

_You’re in for a bad time, Pooly_.

 

Wade turned to his shoulder and hissed, “Will you two shut the fuck up!? I can’t think with you two backseat driving here!” Turning back to Parker, Wade continued. ”And sit your ass back down, while I wait to ambush the great arachnid and then get paid a considerable amount for my efforts.” He finished, and watched cautiously—waiting for the ~~kid’s~~ TARGET’S next move.

 

“Sure. Would you like me to tie myself up for you as well?” Peter asked, green eyes wide and innocent—but hollow. Like he was in a trance of some sort?

 

_Well that’s creepy_.

 

“No! I can do that myself, fuck you very much,” Wade sneered, trying to cover his unease.

 

“Oooh! _Kinky_ ,” Peter smirked, his eyes ice cold and his face was hard. It reminded Wade a little bit too much of suffocating in a plastic tube.

 

**He’s someone else now. You can feel it, can’t you**?

 

_Wait a second—you don’t think he’s_ —

 

Wade and Peter jumped and turned when a window shattered and a light thud accompanied it: the kind of thud a trained assassin might make if they just jumped through a window and weren’t caring about the amount of noise they made.

 

_That was very specific_.

 

**What a coincidence**.

 

“What in the a-a-a-ass?” Wade gaped at the woman covered in glass and dressed head to toe in black, sporting a rather en pointe head of silver hair.

 

_I think it’s ‘on fleek’ now_?

 

**I can never keep up with these kids and their lingo**.

 

“Hope I’m not interrupting any weird bdsm fantasies, though judging by the lack of boners I’m gonna assume I’m not. But like, if I am, then I _reeeeally_ hope I can join in on the fun!” She grinned brightly and thrust her chest out, “I could always torture you with my…” She giggled and bit her knuckle before schooling her face into a cracked attempt at severity, “I could always torture you guys…with my _rack_!” She threw her head back and slapped her knees, hysterical with laughter.

 

_WOOOOOOOW. I’m all for lame puns, but wow. Just wow_.

 

**There are only three kinds of people who laugh _that_ hard at jokes _that bad_**.

 

“Children under the age of 8,” Wade watched the girl with wide eyes as she hugged her chest, then proceeded to _roll around on the ground_.

 

_Dads_.

 

The woman wiped tears from her eyes—which was terribly ineffective considering she was wearing a mask—and re-entered her squatting position from earlier.

 

**And people so crazy, they _eat_ batshit for breakfast**.

 

“You got that right,” Wade shook his head as the woman _continued_ to laugh. She was mostly upright, but she hugged her knees—squatting in a pile of broken glass, but somehow not bleeding all over the place.

 

She eventually calmed down, but still giggled. With a quick nod, the laughter stopped and she jumped up, arms stretched wide like a cheerleader.

 

“Wooo! That was a good one,” She wiped once more at her eyes, shaking her head slightly. Looking back up at Wade and Parker, she smiled toothily—not a cutesy, ‘girl next door’ toothy grin, but ‘psychotic shark monster’ toothy. “Anyways, who’s the damsel in distress here?” The mask was cut to reveal icy blue, playfully wide eyes—but there was something about them that _screamed_ crazy. They made him think of his Calculus teacher from high school.

 

_You took calculus_?

 

**That joke was intended for the author’s best friend, who will probably be the only reader to understand that reference**.

 

_Thought I was going crazy there for a moment lol. Pooly would never do calculus XD_.

 

“Well! C’mon! Which of you is the damsel!? I need to know so that way I can help! If I don’t know who needs the helping, then I won’t be very helpful now will I?” She threw her arms out in exasperation, tilting her head to the right. Every motion she made was over exaggerated—like she was in a cheap straight-to-tv Disney feature.

 

_In my professional opinion, I highly recommend that we book it. Crazy people are one thing. Crazy women, on the other hand_ …

 

**Normally I would point out that you are being a sexist pig, however, I agree on this one. I think we should go, and study this from a distance. From the very beginning, something has been really weird about this whole thing. I don’t like it**.

 

“Yeah. I think you’re both onto something here.” Wade looked at Peter in the corner of his eye, and frowned at the defensive pose the kid had taken—ready to fight instead of flight.

 

“Well, I’m just gonna skedaddle. Smell ya later!” Wade smiled and backed away towards a different window—which was conveniently open. He quickly spun around and bolted out, depressing the transporter button on his belt while in midair like a badass. With a blink, he found himself safely on the ground and across the street from the warehouse. Turning around he saw Peter and the girl watching him from the window. With a quick wave, Wade ran off.

 

**That was close**.

 

_Bob would be so proud of us for that one_.

 

“Shut up! You were all for running away a minute ago!” Wade hissed and glanced over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being followed, scaring the shit out of a bald man in a rumpled business suit, tie askew to reveal a telling amount of red lipstick framed hickies.

 

_Doesn’t change the fact that this wasn’t our most macho moment_.

 

**Not macho is better than castrated, which I’m pretty sure that girl was more than capable of**.

 

_They’d grow back_!

 

“Doesn’t make it any less painful,” Wade shuddered as they turned a corner, grabbing onto a pole to spin around. A bit of mild parkour usually helped heal the sting of cowardice.

 

**It’s like we’ve all forgotten about what this interpretation of Spider-Man is known for**.

 

“So all in all, I think this particular mission was a bust,” Wade muttered grumpily, slouching down on a black bench to catch his breath, ignoring the fact that it was already occupied. Shaking his head sullenly, he pulled out a knife and started to carve a rude image into the armrest, picking up his leg to plop it down on top of a sleeping hobo’s lap.

 

_Think that’s pretty safe to say_.

 

The hobo’s snores stuttered and his eyes opened. He looked over at Deadpool, then at the leg in his lap, and turned over so that his head was gently resting on Wade’s ankle.

 

**Agreed**.

 

“Oh, fucking Pikachu’s pissy cunt!” Wade yelped, and jerked out of the bench, knocking the hobo in the teeth with his knee. The hobo merely readjusted himself and went back to sleep.

 

People stared at him warily, giving him a wide berth as they walked by—hands clutching belongings nervously—as Wade frantically hailed for a cab.

 

_What_?

 

“Did I remember to turn off the stove?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, who's that Pokemon!? I mean character. Shit I play Pokemon too damn much.
> 
>  
> 
> Shit I stole:  
> “Hide yo kids, hide yo wife” Kevin Antoine Dodson  
> Undertale  
> Pokémon
> 
> Yeah, I didn't squeeze as many references in this time. I did quote the movie a bit, though. If you see any other things I quoted and didn't cred, lemme know. Cuz credit is important. But comment plz cuz I like reading them and they encourage me to write more which is good because then it means I get better and the chapters are better and world peace is still not really a thing but comment anyways cuz I said so. See y'all later, byeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
> 
> 8=========================================D


	11. Peter isn't as in Control as He Thinks He is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter thinks he knows what's going down but like he doesn't. Sorry baby boy, but you ain't know shit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit late, but this chapter wanted more attention. Needy lil bitch. So, enjoy!

Peter was plopped onto a chair while his kidnapper paused to look away and mumble something—like a reality tv show contestant talking to a camera, except, of course, _minus the camera_. Peter fought the urge to beat his head against something. How the _Hell_ had he let himself be caught by this lunatic!?

 

Thankfully, Peter hadn’t been blindfolded or knocked out on the way to their location, so he knew where they were. It was a rundown part of New York—pretty close to where his last…ah… _incident_ …as Spider-Man had occurred. The thought made Peter frown. Had he found, or more aptly, been _found_ by the murderer? The man definitely acted unbalanced enough.

 

Of course, Peter was one to talk. Hello psychopathic kettle, meet sadistic pot.

 

“It makes me uncomfortable when you call me son,” Deadpool complained as he straightened up and looked around for something in the dusty warehouse.

 

“You should be looking for your marbles, because you’ve obviously lost them,” Peter muttered aloud, rolling his eyes—inwardly, however, he was shivering in anticipation: and not in the good way. Nervously watching the man look around for _something_ —and wasn’t _that_ a scary thought—Peter absently picked at his cuticles and chewed the inside of his cheek, formulating a plan in his head. Doing what he did best, Peter observed, _forcing_ himself to focus on his surroundings instead of the sheer panic building in his chest and ears—tearing away at the inside of his cheek with his teeth, wincing a bit when he pulled a hangnail too hard—

 

Peter took a deep breath. Now was _not_ the time to roll over and play dead.

 

Scanning the area, Peter catalogued everything in his mind; gutted, defunct machines with shredded wires arbitrarily poking out—were those _claw_ marks?—computer screens bashed in—a reddish brown stain over by an overturned desk on the left—shattered window, no brick or ball in sight indicating more innocent origins. All covered in a thick layer of dust, sprinkled with rat droppings.

 

Conclusion: control station of some sort—likely a dubious sort involving cackling super-villains and pointy objects—sieged a good ten years ago.

 

Frowning, Peter recalled the fractured remains of a rail that he had seen as they entered the room before he was plopped down on the chair and forced to look in the opposite direction. There were trails behind some of the splinters—squinting his eyes as he concentrated on it—like they shot through the dust like little meteors. Clearly that had happened more recently—since their motion disrupted the dust. Judging by the few splinters on the loft and the direction they mostly pointed in—someone had been pushed into it and fell through the rotting wood. Utilizing the thinner layer of dust on the pieces he could generate timelines for the footprints in the dust.

 

Peter took a good look at his captor. The man was entirely clad in a red leather suit—white eyes—and not a single patch of skin to be seen. Interesting. The need for anonymity amongst villains was understandable—but what was Deadpool hiding? What was so big that he needed to cover his entire body?

 

Deadpool turned and looked at Peter, tilting his head.

 

Peter stiffened and clenched his fists, until he realized the man wasn’t looking at him. Deadpool was staring over Peter’s shoulder at something, frowning as if listening to something important. Taking a deep breath, Peter looked back at his surroundings and gleaned as much as he could. There was so much information there—

 

“Thanks!” The man smiled, breaking Peter from his concentration. Peter wanted to punch him in the face—but then he realized the man was looking dead into his eyes. _This_ time he was definitely in the same world as Peter. With stuttered breath, he watched in tense silence as the man sauntered up to him and wagged his finger, hips moving in a weird disjointed fashion. Narrowing in on one of Deadpool’s leg, Peter noticed the man was moving it _ever-so-slightly_ wrong. Old or new injury?

 

“You,” The man jabbed Peter in the middle of his forehead. He sounded like he was trying not to laugh. “Punk. Don’t get any ideas,” He crossed his arms over his chest and scrunched up his face—like he smelled something weird (probably his own breath: it was telling that Peter could smell it all the way through _leather_ ). “I’m just gonna grab some rope. K?” The man tilted his head back and stared down at Parker. Was he trying to be condescending? Because it wasn’t working. He looked like a drunken orangutan.

 

Peter wasn’t sure whether he wanted to scream or laugh—the idea of being tied down was not on his top ten list of favorite things to do—and of course, as per usual, his life preserving instincts left the building, delegating Smartass to take charge of his mouth. If it hadn’t been for the spider bite, he’d have been dead a long time ago—hero or not.

 

“Yeah,” Peter rolled his eyes despite the roar of panic ringing in his ears. “You go get some rope to _tie me up with_ , and I’m just gonna stay right here, nice and quiet, so you can go grab it. No need to worry about the hostage. Go on,” With each word, Peter begged his mouth to stop, but of course, it didn’t. Superman had kryptonite, Spider-Man had the verbal shits. Something _crunched_ in his hand—and out of the corner of his eye, trying not to draw too much attention to whatever he had destroyed, Peter saw the moth-eaten armrests of his chair. With a deep but shaky breath, he loosened his grip enough to not completely pulverize the chair.

 

“You’re being obvious,” Peter whispered to himself and removed his hands from the armrests and instead gripped his forearms, absently scratching at his skin. Looking back up, Peter took in the man’s reactions.

 

His kidnapper’s jaw dropped for a second in shock, before it twisted into a sneer. There didn’t _appear_ to be any anger, however—weirdly enough, he looked...proud? The Spider senses were on edge however, crackling under his skin like static electricity.

 

They _itched_.

 

“Listen, _kid_ ,” Peter rolled his eyes at that, they _always_ insisted on calling him a kid. They _always_ seemed to forget the unstable psychopath twitching under his skin, thrashing for release. “I’m actually kinda starting to like you,” Peter bit his tongue before a rude quip about reverse-Stockholm Syndrome spilled out, “Mouth off to me again,” Jaw clenched to stop his lips from forming the _That’s what she said_ that pushed against his teeth, “I’m going to have to do something _neither_ of us is gonna be too happy about.”

 

Deadpool reached his hand out—slowly, deliberately—Peter grasped his arms hard enough to break the bones of an ordinary person—ready to leap—

 

But the merc merely _ruffled_ _his_ _hair_ , sniggering like he hadn’t been inches away from death. Peter dug his nails into his skin—anchoring them down before his hands caved in to the urge and ripped Deadpool’s arm out of socket and shoved it up his ass. He felt the air sting against his wounds and tried to relax a bit—it would be a bit not good to leave a free DNA sample. Thor knew what the Hell this guy would do with it (okay, maybe not, but he’d be able to find out maybe).

 

“Wonder what having a normal life is like?” Peter whispered to himself, keeping an eye on his kidnapper as the man walked away to a corner of the room—not letting himself think too hard on the idea of rope. He needed to observe—to learn—the more he learned, the faster he learned the quicker his escape—

 

Leaning back in the chair, Peter frowned when he felt something weird nudging his ass. “There’s no _fucking_ way…” Peter whispered, leaning forward and bit to reach around and feel at the object, keeping the man in his sight and hopefully not looking too suspicious if his captor turned around before he could properly inspect the thing. His fingers touched cold metal, and Peter wanted to laugh.

 

“I was _actually kidnapped by this guy_ ,” Peter took the gun and examined it in his lap, looking at it in wonder, noting that at least the safety was on. Slowly, he shook his head. Looking back up with gleaming eyes, he grinned—biting his lip to hold in his laughter.

 

“Poor you! Mocked by your own hostage,” Peter smirked as the man froze—this time, Deadpool was listening. And if he wasn’t, then soon he’d have no other choice. Because now they were playing Peter’s game. “If you give me a minute, I might be able to work up a few tears for you. Oh wait. Nevermind. I can’t.”

 

Peter watched the man carefully, heart beating in excitement as the man flinched. Sneering, Peter slowly stood up while the man muttered something to himself. The man relaxed again, worlds away from Peter. It was fascinating how the mercenary could slip in and out coherency so quickly.

 

The business end of the gun aligned with the back of his kidnapper’s head, and he released the safety, hands steady, the fear and panic on the back burner of his brain.

 

_Click_.

 

“What was that for?” The man huffed and stood up straight. Then, the man stiffened and cursed to himself. Spinning around, he looked at Peter, sighing disappointedly.

 

“Oh _fuck_. You shouldn’t have done that, kiddo,” The man shook his head and looked over to the right again. “We’ll see. I agree, though. Kid’s got some _mejor cajones_ on him,” He sounded impressed that time? Peter was going to go insane trying to keep up with the man’s mood swings. Looking to the right, Deadpool sighed and started talking again, playing with a length of rope in his hands.

 

“Who are you talking to?” Peter demanded, the flash of the gun caught the mercenary’s eyes. His face was hard as he watched the man shut off and look away again. “Who are you talking to!?” Peter asked more forcefully. The man looked over at Peter again, a bemused look on his face.

 

“Oh! Yeah! You asked a question, Oh Peter with the Gun! What was the question again?” The man _was scratching his chin, deep in thought_.

 

Peter lost it and fired a warning shot, aiming for a beer can on one of the iron beams—left behind from a time when the owners of the warehouse were less particular about its occupants.

 

The bullet blasted the can off the beam with a satisfying clang. Peter was good with guns.

 

_Too_ good with guns.

 

“I _asked_ you who the _Hell_ you were talking to!” Peter snapped, training the gun back on the mercenary. Guns were _comfortable_ —the cold metal, the power to end and maim a life with a simple squeeze of a small trigger. The power to finally _end_ years and years of abuse and pain and misery. His finger _itched_ to pull the trigger, _begged_ to do it—just contract an inch and _bang_. Problem solved. Let someone else clean the rest.

 

Peter needed to be careful or else he was going to lose it. He was _already_ losing it. Insanity was creeping in, clouding his reason with temptation. It was just so _frustrating_! All of his careful and calculated decisions, and he was caught by _this_! _This_ had gotten the slip on him while he was weak and worthless _Peter_!

 

Right now, not being Peter would help things.

 

Peter didn’t listen to the man blabber his answer beyond the confirmation that Deadpool was insane. There were more important things he needed to find out.

 

“So. Who hired you?” Peter asked, letting his grip on the gun relax a bit. He needed to breathe—in and out, in and out.

 

“Don’t know, don’t care.”

 

Peter grit his teeth, then closed his eyes and counted to ten, listening to the sounds around him to ensure his captor didn’t get the slip on him— _a-fucking-gain_ —focusing on the task at hand rather than his internal war.

 

“STOP SHOUTING IN MY HEAD!!!!!”

 

Peter’s eyes snapped open and he was startled to see the man whacking his head. His finger stiffened and he contemplated what to do, when the whacking stopped and the man was massaging his temples and muttering.

 

“What was _that_ about!?” Peter lowered the gun, frowning at the man.

 

“The boxes went all capslock on me,” Peter opened his mouth to ask what the boxes _were_ exactly, and what the hell ‘capslock’ meant in that context, but the man continued on, jabbering a mile a minute. “They got the idea from the fifth Harry Potter book and enjoy torturing me with it every now and then. Fuck you, JK Rowling! Fuck you and fuck capslock!Harry too!” The man finished by shaking his fist in the air.

 

“Ooooooooh kaaaaaaay. Sure. Great,” Peter was getting a headache. Gun forgotten, Peter rubbed his forehead.

 

“He thinks he’s got it all under control, but he doesn’t know our secret weapon!”

 

Peter jolted to attention at that and held the gun up again. The insanity from before had faded while Deadpool beat himself upside the head, but now it burst behind his eyes, full force. “W-what secret weapon? The ability to talk someone to death, because I think I already knew about that one,” Peter fought for control in his mind, willing his brain to hold its ground instead of rolling over as psychopathy’s bitch. He was _stronger_ than this. He could do it.

 

“Not exactly, kiddo.” The man laughed, oblivious to the struggle in his captive’s mind.

 

“Come any closer and I’ll shoot!” Not good, not good! He was losing himself more and more with each passing second.

 

The man kept coming closer, laughing, and Peter was falling into the dark, panicking at the sight of the rope still in Deadpool’s fist—heart thrashing in his chest—pulse jumping in his veins—overpowering his ears—his index finger hugged the trigger—the trigger that felt so warm and calming in his hand—just a slight twitch—everything would be under his control again—yes, control! Control was what he needed—

 

_Bang_!

 

The gun fired and Peter was watching from above, still there, still aware, but no longer the only one calling the shots. The bullet seemed to travel in slow motion—Deadpool’s eyes never changed, still laughing as he advanced towards Peter.

 

The bullet and Deadpool met, and it ripped through his chest, a half inch shy of his heart— _precisely_ on target. The skin rippled at the impact, and red filled the spot. However, other than the red spot on his chest, the man didn’t flinch or jerk or even _acknowledge_ that he’d been shot in any way, he just howled with laughter.

 

“ _If you’re aiming to kill, then I got bad new, son_ ,” The man snickered then continued to sing, “ _I got 99 problems, but dying sure ain’t one_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit I stole:
> 
> There’s a Superman reference, but it’s so generic that I don’t even know if it counts  
> The Office (haven’t really watched it, but that’s where the “that’s what she said” thing came from, right?)  
> Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
> 
>  
> 
> So comment and tell me I'm pretty. Or maybe not the last part since you have no idea what I look like, but yeah. Comment. Even if all you have to say is penis. One penis in hand is better than two in the bush (that came (gross) out a lot grosser than I thought it would).
> 
> Bye guys until next week-ish probably most likely
> 
>  
> 
> COMMENT
> 
> 8============D


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